"You know it's not the cooker. It's that darned gravity."
He realized now it was a weight fluctuation that had nudged him from his nap.
"I've got it set that way, Love," he explained. "We did not get clouds in the contract. But by varying the gravity control we can have them for nothing. It all has to do with atmospheric pressure."
Edna cast a resigned glance skyward. "If that's the way you want it—fleecy clouds and burnt beans—"
The guttural scream of braking jets rattled the windows and sent the herons winging for the safety of the other hemisphere. Hesitating on the fringe of the atmosphere, the freighter altered its approach and landed beside the house.
Titus went out to meet the skipper and his three assistants whose arms were filled with printed forms.
"You Potentate McWorther?" the skipper asked.
Titus smiled in embarrassment. "It's a gag. I just call myself that."
"We got your order," the other snapped. "Where do you want it?"
Titus' small eyes widened with an inner vision of the automatic bather—a vision which went on in speculation to dispose of the crude shower-masseur, for which he and Edna were getting a bit too old.