Edna received him with hands on hips. "Three days—what?"
"Getting things balanced again."
"What are you going to do about all that stuff cluttering up our beautiful planetoid?" She was near tears.
With Edna dogging his steps, he returned to the veranda, where his julep was now quite thin and warm in the rays of the setting sun.
"We'll have to find out where it came from first," he said, staring dismally over the mountains of machinery and grain, the tumbled stacks of crates and barrels and kegs, the lesser rows of wheeled and winged vehicles.
"Seems to me," Edna persisted, "that the invoices will show that." She gestured at what remained of the stacks of printed forms.
The rest of the slips were strewn over the ground as far as he could see. "Only the first sheet will show the origin—if we could ever find it," Titus explained.
He went out to the air car, warmed it up and sent it churning skyward. Near the attenuated top of the atmosphere, he was able to see exactly how much extraneous stuff had been dumped on his world. The main area of disposal seemed to have been within a two-mile radius of the house.
An ever-widening helical course, wending its way alternately from night to day, eventually brought him on a great circle that sliced over both poles. Then, with his searchlights still burning, he spiraled inward, covering the other hemisphere. The rest of his world was in primal order.
He started for home around the daylight side.