The chauffeur pressed the "unpack" stud. The sides of the crate fell outward.
"What is it?" Netath drew back, surveying the ivory, tanklike thing with its sparkling fixtures and flexible appendages.
Bataul bent and read the words on the inscription plate: "Deluxe Automatic Bather—4678-25C."
By then, Netath had found the torn, soiled delivery tag. He read the part of the writing that was still legible:
"... sincerely hope this expression of Western amity meets with your satisfaction. If we can serve you again, please don't hesitate...."
Infuriated, he imparted a vindictive kick to the crate and crumpled the paper.
"That's the cosmic aid we were expecting?" Bataul sputtered.
"Capitalist Western dogs!" Netath exclaimed. "They were just trifling with our planetary honor!"
"It's an insult against our racial character!" the foreign minister said severely. "They know we have no use for a bather, shedding our skin as we do once a day."
Netath forced restraint into his features. "We will not lose our diplomatic poise. There is always the chance a mistake has been made."