The insigne of the Western Cluster emblazoned on its side, a giant ship felt its way down through the atmosphere, sidled this way and that as it squeezed through the barrier of anchored Pullman crafts, pulled up and hovered over the southern edge of the veranda.
At that particular moment, Titus had been quite fascinated with the tumblers' practice session. One of the gymnasts, preparing for a back-flip, had taken a boost from the cupped hands of another. Only the resulting arc through the air was executed with slow-motion rhythm that took the performer to a height of perhaps twenty feet before he floated back to the ground.
At the same time, Titus' ears popped again and he had the odd sensation that the deck chair was shrinking away beneath him.
The newly arrived ship lowered an escalator to the surface and the pilot glided down, landing only a few feet from McWorther.
"There seems to be some mistake," he said. "I was given these coordinates and orbital factor for a—" he checked his notebook—"McWorther's World."
"This," said Titus stiffly, "is McWorther's World."
Cupping his hands, the pilot called back into the ship. "We're on the right place."
An alarmed face poked out of the hatch.
"This is it?"
Titus lurched to his feet, returning an equally startled expression. The man coming clown the escalator was President Vance Roswell of the Western Federation! He had seen the face on thousands of newscasts.