It was a peculiar flood. Suffusing the water was a thick scum that flashed iridescently as it caught the glint of light from the ceiling. He stuck his finger into the dross and applied it to the tip of his tongue. Syrup! He thought of the thousands of barrels that had been dumped into the lake and surmised that the contaminated water was backing up through the drainage system. He altered course for the pumps. And, like ships in convoy, a score of virtuosos invaded the cellar, paddling in his wake. The soprano's piercing voice assailed his ears. "In all my theatrical experience, I have never been subjected to such indignity! I insist--" But a violinist pushed forward, wielding his bow like a stiff finger. "You, sir, are holding back on us. No doubt you know what our future instructions are." "I've never seen such fascist highhandedness," complained a diminutive choreographer in the uniform of a Palosov Rocket Dancer. "In the name of the ministry of culture of the Eastern Federation, I demand to see a representative of His Imperial Highness!" Ignoring them, Titus trudged on to the pumps and set them for maximum drain-off. The Simalean ballerina did a series of rapid turns and watched the spray and the pattern of ripples that issued from her darting feet. "Exquisite!" she exuberated. "I shall have to speak with the _maître de ballet_ about a nymphal sequence!" "Come on, Pop." One of the tumblers confronted Titus. "What's the gimmick? Why are they keeping us loafing around here?" "Why?" roared a dramatist, allowing his voice full rein in the acoustic inadequacy of the cellar. "I'll tell you: It's a capitalist scheme to abduct the top talent of the glorious workers' federation!" Hands clamped over his ears, Titus finally made it to the hypertransmitter. He jiggled its dials, beat on the cabinet, lifted a foot from the water and gave it a couple of kicks broadside. No results. It was obviously shorted out from the flood. And none of the Pullman crafts was equipped with long-range communications gear. Titus waded from the cellar, plodded through the house, leaving pools of syrupy water in his wake, and stalked onto the veranda. The scene was no less hectic than it had been. There were two orchestras now. And they were waging a war of decibels to determine whether the "East Cluster Blastoff March" or the "West Cluster Anthem" should prevail over McWorther's World. Two debating teams were holding forth on the comparative benefits of proletarian solidarity and the free enterprise system. Beyond the caladium bed, Edna, who seemed to have finally succumbed to frustrated abandon, had struck a face-to-the-sun and wind-in-her-hair posture for a portraitist who was drowning futility in artistic endeavor.