"Titus, this has gone far enough!" she exclaimed. "If you don't—"
"Later, Love," he pacified. "Something's going wrong."
She was taken aback by his understatement. But he hadn't meant it that way. He had merely expressed suspicion over his recurrent sensations of lightness.
Almost at the same time, two other ships dropped down at the edge of the veranda. The hatch of the first sprang open and disgorged a thin man in a swallow-tail coat who drew rigidly erect and announced:
"His Most August Excellency, Prime Minister Netath of Gauyuth-Six!"
Ogarm Netath, indignation branding his features, strode out. "Where's this Potentate McWorther character?" he demanded.
A hundred extended fingers singled out Titus, who was just then pouring a thirteenth julep.
Netath stomped over. "You, sir, have got my aid consignments!"
By that time, the other ship had thrown open its hatch and a short, stout man in a business suit emerged.