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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Glory of Ippling, by Helen M. Urban
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Glory of Ippling
+
+Author: Helen M. Urban
+
+Release Date: October 24, 2007 [EBook #23185]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GLORY OF IPPLING ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Note:
+
+    This etext was produced from _Galaxy_ December 1962. Extensive
+    research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on
+    this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical
+    errors have been corrected without note. Subscript characters are
+    shown within {braces}.
+
+
+
+
+      _He brought them life and hope.
+ Why wouldn't the fools take it from him?_
+
+
+             By HELEN M. URBAN
+
+
+
+               THE GLORY OF
+                  IPPLING
+
+
+There's an axiom in the galaxy: The more complicated the machine, the
+bigger mess it can make. Like the time the planetary computer for
+Buughabyta flipped its complete grain-futures series. The computer
+ordered only 15 acres, and Buughabytians had to live for a full year off
+the government's stored surplus--thus pounding down the surplus, forcing
+up the price, eliminating the subsidy and balancing the Buughabytian
+budget for fifteen years--an unprecedented bit of nonsense that almost
+had permanent effects. But a career economist with an eye for flubup and
+complication managed to restore balanced disorder, bringing Buughabyta
+right back to normalcy.
+
+Or like the time a matter-duplicator receiver misread OCH{3}CH{3}OH, to
+turn out a magnificently busted blonde sphygmomano-raiser with an
+HOCH{3}OH replacement, putting a strain on the loyalty of a billion
+teen-age girls dedicated to Doyle Oglevie worship. Doyle-she insisted
+she was Doyle-he, as it took quite a while for her hormones to overcome
+the memory of his easy, eyelash-flapping, tone-torturing microphone
+conquests. Put a strain on his wardrobe, too.
+
+No machine, of course, can compare for complexity with any group of
+humans who have been collected into machine-like precision of
+operation. Take one time when an Ipplinger Cultural Contact Group was
+handed a Boswellister with V.I.P. connections and orders to put him to
+an assignment--for his maturity.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Boswellister sat patiently. He squirmed emotionally up and down his
+backbone, but he affected a disdainful appearance of patience in view of
+the importance of his and his poppa's positions compared with the
+pawn-like minusculity of the audience's.
+
+The Blond Terror strode majestically down the aisle of the open air
+sports arena, preceded by twenty-four harem-darling dancing girls. The
+orchestra wailed an oriental sinuosity of woodwinds and drums,
+accompanying the hip-twitching, nearly naked, sloe- (by benefit of
+make-up) eyed, black-haired beauties.
+
+Fifteen heavyweights, draped in leopard skins, had preceded the dancers
+to set up the Blond Terror's tub on a polar bear rug in the center of
+the ring. A dozen luscious watercarriers had emptied their jars into the
+tub. Soap and towels, oils and perfumes, mirror and comb, were arranged
+on top of a lushly ornamented box that stood by one of the corner posts.
+
+The Blond Terror vaulted the ropes and stood in the ring, popping his
+muscles, waiting for his handmaidens to remove the five layers of
+elaborately decorated robes that were draped over his super-manly body.
+
+Boswellister cringed slightly (inwardly), speculating that the Blond
+Terror really was a muscled man. All that man--nearly seven feet tall,
+bronzed, developed, imperious, condescending to notice just slightly the
+adulations of the women in the packed arena.
+
+The Blond Terror stepped into the tub, carrying out his advertised boast
+of being the cleanest wrestler in the ring, a boast he was unable to
+prove with ring action through the exigencies of type-casting, for the
+Blond Terror was the villain.
+
+The Blond Terror muscled down into the tub. He was scrubbed, then
+rinsed. He stood out onto the white fur rug and sneeringly allowed his
+handmaidens to pat him dry and powder him down. They held up the large
+hand mirror and allowed him to view his handsomeness while his
+short-cropped, blond curls were carefully combed.
+
+"Now." Boswellister spoke the order into the lapel receiver. On the
+Ipplinger starship a communications tech slapped home a switch and the
+solido-vision circle settled over the Blond Terror's head, a halo of
+solid light for a complex Ipplinger signal-reaction device.
+
+"Hail Ippling!" Boswellister shouted.
+
+Boswellister strained forward, clutching the seat arms. It had to work!
+His equation must be right! The symbol had the proper cultural
+connotations. It was bound to capture the audience, put them in the
+right mood of awe-struck superstitious reverence, make the revelation of
+the great circle of the Ipplinger starship overhead a thing of
+wonderment and devotion-focus.
+
+The Blond Terror should now look upwards, guide the eyes of the
+audience, bring them to the recognition. After all, as a Boswellister
+... and according to his great grandfather, and his poppa too....
+
+But the Blond Terror gazed appreciatively into the mirror, smiling slyly
+at the audience.
+
+The crowd roared its applause for the trick lighting effect. You could
+depend on the Blond Terror. No matter how many times you'd seen his act,
+he always managed to come up with something new. Now, for the opening of
+the new Million Dollar Ventura Boulevard Open Air Sports Arena, the
+Blond Terror had done it again.
+
+Boswellister shouted. He pointed. He stared upwards, trying to draw the
+crowd with his vehemence. But he couldn't capture one gaze, no matter
+what he did.
+
+He poked the man seated next to him, but the surly fool snarled,
+"Shuddup! The Hatchet Man's goin' into his act!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Boswellister moaned. There it was, sailing in the night sky, illuminated
+with soft etherealness to give the proper effect to these
+superstition-ridden people. All they had to do was glance up and accord
+to Ippling the superiority that was Ippling's, and they would be brought
+gently, delicately into galactic contact, opening out their narrow ways
+into the broad ways of the galactic universal worlds. With Boswellister
+to lead them.
+
+But he couldn't make the play. Not a head would tilt up. The TV cameras
+that should be scanning the great lighted circle of the Ipplinger
+starship had swung to the entrance, waiting for the Hatchet Man.
+
+And here he came, down the aisle like a bolt of Chinese lightning. He
+vaulted the ropes, leaped to the tub, overturned it and was gone back up
+the aisle before the Blond Terror could retaliate. Bath water sopped the
+piles of robes and made a mess out of the bearskin rug; but the ring
+attendants carted everything off, removed the waterproof canvas from the
+ring mat and prepared to get the match underway.
+
+The Blond Terror paced in his corner, waving his hand mirror,
+challenging the Hatchet Man to quick, bloody death. And every few
+moments he'd stop to gaze admiringly into the mirror, running his hand
+along the edge of the solid band of light, grabbing all the credit for
+Ipplinger electronic science. He turned on cue to give the TV audience a
+full-face closeup.
+
+Boswellister cursed himself for choosing the Blond Terror. That cynical,
+egocentric muscle artist was too pleased with himself to have any room
+in his thoughts for proper superstitious awe, and too stupid to
+recognize the superior science in back of the halo device.
+
+"Remove the device," Boswellister ordered. There was no point in
+allowing it to stay, and that band of solid light, immovably in place on
+the wrestler's head, made a perfect battering ram for head-butting
+mayhem.
+
+Boswellister paid no attention to the gladiators-at-mat; he left his
+seat as soon as the device was removed and walked out onto Ventura
+Boulevard. He went over his cultural equation, trying to find the flaw.
+
+In the year he had spent on the preliminary survey, he had assessed this
+cultural equation to the last decimal point of surety. He had absolute
+faith in these people's superstitions. He knew what to expect; but
+somewhere the equation had been off. He should have chosen a quieter
+event, he guessed. The audience had been too well schooled in the
+acceptance of the spectacular.
+
+What was needed was a more acute contrast, and suddenly he had it: the
+burlesque runway. He had watched it many times ... and there was one
+girl, a big-bodied blonde with mild eyes.
+
+He checked his watch and hurried his pace. It was about time for Dodie's
+turn on the runway that extended out from the front of the gambling
+house.
+
+With satisfaction, Boswellister called up the memory of Dodie's peel
+act. This would be a natural, and he couldn't think why he hadn't
+decided on it right away.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In many ways Dodie was a big girl. In clothes she could never be the
+fashion ideal, but she certainly made a good thing out of nakedness. Her
+soft, heavy, white breasts made old men blanch and young men start to
+grab. She was tall, with a narrow waist, flaring hips, long curvy legs
+and arms; with those big, innocent blue eyes, wearing high heels and an
+ounce of flimsy, up there on the burlesque runway ... mmm ...
+Boswellister groaned.
+
+She wouldn't date Boswellister a second time no matter what he
+promised, and his promises had included many things she'd never before
+heard of. Boswellister squirmed momentarily.
+
+It was too bad there wasn't a better crowd. Most of the Boulevard's
+regulars were at the Arena opening, but there were a few loiterers,
+standing along the curb, watching the free show. And all he had to do
+was make a beginning, Boswellister felt. He was sure that everything
+would roll by itself after that. He had faith in his superstition
+equation.
+
+Dodie peeled. She seemed headed for complete nakedness at any moment,
+but to Boswellister's surprise, the revealing costume contained more
+pieces than he had remembered.
+
+"Any moment now," he whispered to the solido-tech. "Now, wait ... there
+... that should be the last piece. Settle the device around her head,"
+he ordered. Then he groaned and countermanded the order. He had
+remembered Dodie's details, not her act. For at the last moment she
+slipped to the wings, dropping the last swatch of lace to slide down one
+long, white, out-thrust leg.
+
+Oh, blessed Ippling! There was his ship, floating majestically overhead,
+but no one would give it a glance. He pointed to it. These men _must_
+follow his excited gestures and look up; but they were busy calling
+suggestions to the line of ponies who had taken over the runway.
+Boswellister felt as if he were standing in a desert, surrounded by a
+mob of phantoms from his own imagination.
+
+The crying voice of the gambling-house barker rode in over the clang and
+brass of jazzy music, but he couldn't turn the tip. As soon as the
+line-girls left the over-the-sidewalk runway, the idlers moved on down
+the street to take in the next spot's free outdoor lure show.
+
+Boswellister leaned against the wall and watched the barker wipe his
+sweat-soaked forehead. He felt kinship with the man in his failure. The
+manager came out and talked to the barker for a moment. Boswellister
+overheard: "Dodie didn't draw one customer. A buck ain't to be made
+these days."
+
+The barker replied, shaking his head, "They're oversold, Marve. The
+give-away is all they want."
+
+Boswellister turned away and walked towards his motel. They wanted the
+give-away, but the glory of Ippling he had to give made no impression.
+He felt desperate. He had to make one more try.
+
+His family position demanded obedience from the starship officers and
+crew. He stopped for a moment and gave a swift command into the lapel
+pickup, then went on to his motel room.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The next morning, full of confidence after a good breakfast, he headed
+for the intersection of Laurel Canyon and Ventura Boulevards. There he
+would make his stand.
+
+The boulevard swarmed with women shoppers. Cars and trucks roared by.
+The spectacular signs and free lure show runways were closed down, for
+ballyhoo of a different character had taken their place for the daytime.
+
+Boswellister stopped for a moment to watch a demonstrator work before a
+huge, block-long, glittering drugstore.
+
+The demonstrator went into his pitch:
+
+"--money back. Now watch! Into a wet glass I pour a small amount of
+medically tested Calsobisidine. See how the Calsobisidine clings to the
+sides of the wet glass."
+
+The pitchman smiled with flawless teeth and the women smiled back at
+him. His shoes were waxed and buffed; his hair fell in a black curl
+across his high forehead; his gardenia dripped dew like the ones in the
+box by his elbow. Each bottle of Calsobisidine came complete with an
+intimate smile from the pitchman, a fresh gardenia pinned on the breast
+by his clever fingers and a trial sample bottle. Just for six
+ninety-five, plus tax.
+
+"In the exact same manner, Calsobisidine clings to the lining of your
+stomach and intestines, giving positive relief from burning pain and
+acid indigestion."
+
+This puzzled Boswellister, and he remarked in a voice that seemed
+overloud, "But who has glass insides?"
+
+The women giggled and turned away.
+
+The pitchman's scowl was a menace; his voice bitter: "Go on, scram. You
+queered my tip."
+
+Boswellister slipped away while the pitchman started to collect a new
+crowd. He popped into the entrance of the drugstore, and as always stood
+momentarily amazed by the bewildering variety of merchandise. Gardening
+implements, paper goods, dishes and glassware, whiskey, Calsobisidine, a
+huge display of baby dolls that performed every human function but
+reproduction....
+
+Then he gasped and walked towards the inside demonstration. There,
+presided over by a fake medical man, dressed in operating room regalia,
+including mask, rubber gloves and stethoscope; there, right in the
+middle of the block-long drugstore, a demonstration of the newest
+educational doll was taking place. The doll, stretched out on a
+miniature hospital delivery table, was being delivered of a replica
+new-born infant.
+
+Again and again the "doctor" performed the delivery, alternately
+inserting the doll-baby into the doll-mamma and removing it.
+
+Boswellister flushed and walked quickly away. He had no doubt of the
+toy's educational value, but nevertheless--he sighed deeply.
+
+When Boswellister reached the corner of Ventura and Laurel Canyon, he
+made his stand on the southeast corner, facing the hills over which the
+Ipplinger starship would come to hover over the intersection and be
+revealed by him.
+
+He contacted control and ordered the halo focus for his head. He reached
+up and felt the circle, planted firmly over his brow. He smiled to
+himself and went into his pitch.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"People of Earth," he began in a quavering voice, then he remembered the
+Calsobisidine demonstrator, firmed up his tones and started again.
+"People of Earth! Listen to the message from the stars!"
+
+"Selling horoscopes," a woman answered her child's question.
+
+"What's a horrorscope, mamma?"
+
+"A bunch of hooey," she snapped in reply, scowled at Boswellister and
+jerked her child complainingly down the street behind her.
+
+"People of Earth!" Boswellister stated commandingly. He grasped a man's
+arm, saying, "Stand still a moment, friend, and hear the promise of
+Ippling. Glory beyond your imagination can be yours with the ascendancy
+of Ippling in this world of tears and sorrows."
+
+The man jerked away. "What the hell, Mac!" He looked searchingly at
+Boswellister and muttered, "Geez, a nut." He stood back from
+Boswellister to listen, smilingly superior, tolerantly waiting to be
+entertained. A woman dragging a toddler stopped, then several other
+people stopped to see until Boswellister had about ten people standing
+around him.
+
+"People of Earth!" he started in again, but he was interrupted by a
+cackling voice from the rear.
+
+"Where else?"
+
+The small crowd laughed and started to move away, but Boswellister stood
+straight and commanded them. "Listen! Wait for a moment and learn your
+glorious destiny.
+
+"Now," he said quietly into the lapel pickup, and the great doughnut
+circle of the Ipplinger starship sailed in close over the hills. A line
+of brush fire followed the starship.
+
+Boswellister held up his hands and pointed. "Behold the glory of
+Ippling that can be yours!" He held onto the halo, trying to get them to
+follow the symbolism. "Look upwards!" He screamed at them, but they
+watched the brush fire that swept the hill top. It was a goodie. It
+would wipe out a number of homes.
+
+He grabbed a boy by the arm and demanded, "Look at the Ipplinger
+starship. Behold the glory of Ippling!"
+
+The ten-year-old sneered. "Yah! That's the new 1993 Lockheed X69-P37
+experimental ship. I got a model last week."
+
+"No, no, lad! The Ipplinger starship, come to Earth to bring the
+blessings of Ippling's culture to this backwards planet. Ippling will
+save you from wars and ills, from poverty and hatred. Ippling will be
+your destiny. Follow me, Boswellister! Ippling will lead you to the
+stars! Glory for all!" Boswellister patted the boy on the head.
+
+"Keep your hands off me, you big stiff!"
+
+Boswellister gulped and pointed upwards. "See the Ipplinger starship!"
+
+"Aah! Shuddup!"
+
+His mother jerked his arm in reproof. "How many times I've gotta tell
+you not to say, shuddup. Say, SHUT UP! S-H-U-T U-P!"
+
+"Aah!" the boy said in disgust. "Everybody knows starships are big
+rockets!" He'd said the final word; he had no more interest in
+Boswellister, for the fire engines were coming.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+They sirened down Ventura and turned up Laurel Canyon, their heavy
+motors, air horns and sirens drowning out Boswellister's speech. Cars
+had piled up at the intersection to wait for the fire engines to make
+their swing, and Boswellister leaped to the middle of the intersection
+as soon as the trucks had turned.
+
+He held up his arms and went into his _People of Earth_ spiel again. But
+angry, blasting horns cut his voice to nothing. The drivers pressed
+close in on him, pinpointing him in the middle of the intersection.
+Shouts and jeers and horns; the roaring scream of fire engines; people
+running and shouting; Ventura at Laurel Canyon was a cacophonous
+maelstrom.
+
+A traffic officer screeched his copcycle to a halt and made his way to
+the center of the mass of tangled traffic. He blew his whistle and waved
+his arms, ordering Boswellister to the sidewalk, but Boswellister
+refused to move. He had his mission on Earth.
+
+Boswellister shouted over the piled-up noise, waving his hand to the
+sky, calling to them to follow his lead to the glory of Ippling.
+
+The officer grabbed his coat collar and hustled him to the sidewalk.
+"You're under arrest!"
+
+"You can't arrest _me_!" Boswellister squirmed and jerked away. He
+shouted, "Follow me!" and ran north, a good part of the crowd after him.
+He shrieked an order into the pickup while he ran over the bridge
+towards Moorpark.
+
+A woman spotted the Ipplinger starship that followed overhead. "Free
+samples!" she screamed, and those who had lagged behind fell into a run
+with the crowd following Boswellister.
+
+The northwest corner of Laurel Canyon and Moorpark had been cleared of
+houses for the erection of a new billion-dollar shopping center, and the
+ground was smooth and bare. Here, in the center of the five-acre
+construction site, the Ipplinger starship settled to Earth.
+
+The Ipplinger Supreme Starship Commander was panic-stricken. He had to
+rescue Boswellister from that sample-seeking mob. If Boswellister should
+be trampled and injured! Each screamed demand, picked up by
+Boswellister's lapel microphone, sent the Supreme Commander's blood
+pressure up another notch, and the moment the ramp was unshipped he hit
+the ground.
+
+Officers and crewmen quickly lined up to pipe Boswellister aboard. But
+the crowd pushed in close, forcing Boswellister to the rear as they
+screamed for their free samples. Two bulky crewmen stood embattled by
+the entrance port, strong-arming the kids who tried to storm through the
+port and inside.
+
+"Space Angel's inside!" That was their battle cry as they tried to
+wriggle under the legs of the crewmen.
+
+"Ya sellin' Oatbombs?" one screamed in the commander's ear, then reached
+up to snatch off a shoulder patch.
+
+Boswellister stood in the rear of the crowd and wrung his hands while
+the crowd clamored for their samples.
+
+"Give us the pitch, then pass out the stuff!"
+
+"Lookit that ship! Ain't it a dilly! Whatcha sellin', Wheatsnaps?"
+
+"Bring on the dames!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+They pressed in close to the starship, running their hands over the
+slick metal surface.
+
+"Boy, what a prop! Bet it cost a million bucks. What ya sellin',
+mister?"
+
+"Sanity!" Boswellister shouted from the rear.
+
+His men tried to hold their ranks, but the crowd broke the lines,
+jerking the medals off their chests for souvenirs.
+
+Boswellister was almost babbling by the time the commander and his men
+battled their way to him.
+
+"You saw it all! You know!" Boswellister protested. "That Blond Terror
+and his harem darlings, and those violence-avid ruffians in the
+audience! Dodie, the stripper, with her lip-licking ogglers! That
+Calsobisidine pitchman, oozing allure and implied invitation! My
+equation! My precious equation, buried under a mass of pills, lotions,
+toys, food, clothes and everything sold with a bump and grind!"
+
+They fought to the ship with him, while the crowd opposed each step,
+yelling for entertainment, for TV cameras, for samples of anything.
+
+"How could I have missed it?" Boswellister moaned. "I should have sold
+them with sex, right from the beginning."
+
+"What do you do, handsome? Sing?" A bundle-clutching housewife breathed
+into his face, stepping on the commander's foot as she shoved in close
+to Boswellister.
+
+"Take me home!" Boswellister beseeched the commander.
+
+The officers and crew, tattered, demedaled, bruised and completely
+defeated in morale, formed a flying wedge and drove for the safety of
+the ship.
+
+The ramp retracted. The port closed, then opened briefly to eject a
+nosey boy, closing finally on the demands and the mocking laughter and
+the clangor of arriving police cars.
+
+"Raise ship!" the commander ordered. He sopped at the blood from his
+gashed arm and said to his first officer, "Somebody in that mob used a
+knife to go after those service stripes."
+
+The first shuddered. "Ugly brutes."
+
+Boswellister leaned against the corridor bulkhead and sighed as the
+Ipplinger starship rose from the ground. How could he explain to his
+poppa? All his brothers had won their worlds. He _would_ do it. He
+squared his shoulders. After all, he was a Boswellister. Boswellister
+XIV, no less. A son of Gaphroldshan IX himself, the Prince of Ippling
+World LXIV, a Royal Prince of the Central Ippling.
+
+He walked resolutely to the control room, riding the crest of his
+refurbished dignity.
+
+"Put me down on that planet we spotted last year," he ordered. "What was
+that star map number?"
+
+"G.S.R. 285139-F. R. A. 592-105-R.U. 13," his alert assistant
+astronomical officer answered, reading the number from a prepared
+memorandum.
+
+Boswellister hesitated. Should he reprimand the officer for anticipating
+his failure or compliment him for his efficiency? Boswellister backed
+water and went to his room to learn the language he'd need, while the
+officers pulled their own demoralized spirits together so they could go
+to work on the crew when the news broke that they weren't going home.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+They made a quick passage to their destination, and Boswellister--well
+rested, well fed, hypnotically tutored, supplied with communicators, a
+synthesizer for his food and a portable equation writer strapped to his
+back, and his irrepressible, dauntless belief in himself in triumphant
+operation--stepped from the ramp onto this newest world of his Princely
+destiny.
+
+"Circle in orbit," he ordered. "I'll call you when I need you."
+
+Boswellister walked confidently down the road to town. He congratulated
+himself on having learned, also on his wise humility in admitting the
+fact of his having learned. He smiled now at the naiveté with which he
+had approached his first try at establishing a realm for his Ipplinger
+Princedom rights.
+
+He had been so full of illusions that he had landed openly, had stepped
+right up and announced that he had come to establish his household and
+rear his own Princes, who would, in their maturity, leave to win their
+own worlds. In addition to their being small-minded on that first world
+about his needing five wives for his household, they had nearly managed
+to commit him to a lunatic asylum, for he had overlooked, in his
+equation, the fact that his first planet, with its two suns and
+perpetual daylight, had never known about the stars. There had been no
+way to break through their wall of stupidity, and he had left, the
+planet's sanity-police close on his heels. Had he used money it would
+have been a cinch, he had realized as soon as he was safely in the ship.
+
+That hard-earned lesson he had applied to his second planet, but there
+superstition meant more than money, though money had seemed on the
+surface to be the answer to everything. On that second planet he had
+made the error of buying his way into the half-political, half-religious
+temple setup, and had tried to bring the local superstitions into line
+with Ipplinger Reality Philosophy. They had lost an officer and three
+men when they rescued him from the temple's torture chamber; and none
+too soon, for he had been taking quite a stretching when his rescue had
+arrived.
+
+Applied on Earth, the superstition equation had not paid off. He had
+failed to notice that they didn't really believe in their religions and
+superstitions, though they showed every indication of being extremely
+devout and credulous. He should have sold Earth, and sold it with sex.
+
+Well, he had learned, all right, and here, on this new world, in this
+fresh start, he would show how well he had learned. In the idiom of
+Ventura Boulevard, he'd hit 'em with the whole deck, deuces wild. He'd
+give 'em sex and money and superstition and to hell with fact and logic.
+
+These primitive worlds had to be brought slowly into a respect for
+logic; for Ipplinger logic, the only valid system of logic in the whole
+universe.
+
+In the hovering ship, the commander turned to the astrogator and said,
+with the bitterness of yesterday's conflict with the mutinous crew
+evident in his voice, "Well, our little vaporized circuit is off again."
+He motioned to the image of Boswellister in the forward viewscreen.
+
+It was a sight that tended to increase the tremor in the astrogator's
+hands. He replied, "I only hope we can pull the crew through another
+pickup. Home and family! Do they think I want mine any less?"
+
+Boswellister marched confidently down the road. He _would_ succeed, for
+didn't he have the well oiled machinery of the whole Ipplinger starship
+crew of cultural contact specialists to back him up?
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+While he walked, he practiced the strident-voiced delivery of
+extravagant lies he had learned so well and had so magnificently
+imitated from the Ventura Boulevard pitch artists. He practiced the
+leering insinuendo of the barker outside the gambling hall; he gave it
+the Calsobisidine con come-on; he sold it solid, dripping with sex,
+twitching with lure.
+
+He knew that here, finally, he would succeed.
+
+Boswellister XIV, Noble Prince of Ippling, smiled his confidence in his
+sex-money-superstition equation as he walked briskly down the road to
+begin his contact with a world that had substituted vat-culture
+procreation for sex; that had abolished money in favor of a complicated
+system of verbal, personal-honor swapping credits; that had no religions
+or superstitions. A world of people who considered the most sweetly
+distilled essence of living to be the minute investigation of the fine
+points of logical discourse, engaged in on the basis of an incredibly
+multiplied logic structure composed of thirty-seven separate systems of
+discursive regulations, the very first of which was based on a planetary
+absolute, the rejection and ridicule of all persuasive techniques and
+those who used them.
+
+                                                      --HELEN M. URBAN
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Glory of Ippling, by Helen M. Urban
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+    <title>
+      The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Glory of Ippling, by Helen M. Urban
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Glory of Ippling, by Helen M. Urban
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Glory of Ippling
+
+Author: Helen M. Urban
+
+Release Date: October 24, 2007 [EBook #23185]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GLORY OF IPPLING ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+
+
+<p class="tease">He brought them life and hope.<br />
+Why wouldn't the fools take it from him?</p>
+
+
+<h2>By HELEN M. URBAN</h2>
+<h1><big>THE GLORY OF<br />
+IPPLING</big></h1>
+
+
+<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">There's</span> an axiom in the galaxy:
+The more complicated
+the machine, the bigger mess it
+can make. Like the time the planetary
+computer for Buughabyta
+flipped its complete grain-futures
+series. The computer ordered
+only 15 acres, and Buughabytians
+had to live for a full year off the
+government's stored surplus&mdash;thus
+pounding down the surplus,
+forcing up the price, eliminating
+the subsidy and balancing the
+Buughabytian budget for fifteen
+years&mdash;an unprecedented bit of
+nonsense that almost had permanent
+effects. But a career economist
+with an eye for flubup and
+complication managed to restore
+balanced disorder, bringing Buughabyta
+right back to normalcy.</p>
+
+<p>Or like the time a matter-duplicator
+receiver misread OCH<sub>3</sub>CH<sub>3</sub>OH,
+to turn out a magnificently
+busted blonde sphygmomano-raiser
+with an HOCH<sub>3</sub>OH replacement,
+putting a strain on
+the loyalty of a billion teen-age
+girls dedicated to Doyle Oglevie
+worship. Doyle-she insisted she
+was Doyle-he, as it took quite a
+while for her hormones to overcome
+the memory of his easy,
+eyelash-flapping, tone-torturing
+microphone conquests. Put a
+strain on his wardrobe, too.</p>
+
+<p>No machine, of course, can
+compare for complexity with any
+group of humans who have been
+collected into machine-like precision
+of operation. Take one time
+when an Ipplinger Cultural Contact
+Group was handed a Boswellister
+with V.I.P. connections
+and orders to put him to an assignment&mdash;for
+his maturity.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Boswellister</span> sat patiently.
+He squirmed emotionally
+up and down his backbone, but
+he affected a disdainful appearance
+of patience in view of the
+importance of his and his poppa's
+positions compared with the
+pawn-like minusculity of the audience's.</p>
+
+<p>The Blond Terror strode majestically
+down the aisle of the
+open air sports arena, preceded
+by twenty-four harem-darling
+dancing girls. The orchestra
+wailed an oriental sinuosity of
+woodwinds and drums, accompanying
+the hip-twitching, nearly
+naked, sloe- (by benefit of make-up)
+eyed, black-haired beauties.</p>
+
+<p>Fifteen heavyweights, draped
+in leopard skins, had preceded
+the dancers to set up the Blond
+Terror's tub on a polar bear rug
+in the center of the ring. A dozen
+luscious watercarriers had emptied
+their jars into the tub. Soap
+and towels, oils and perfumes,
+mirror and comb, were arranged
+on top of a lushly ornamented box
+that stood by one of the corner
+posts.</p>
+
+<p>The Blond Terror vaulted the
+ropes and stood in the ring, popping
+his muscles, waiting for his
+handmaidens to remove the five
+layers of elaborately decorated
+robes that were draped over his
+super-manly body.</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister cringed slightly
+(inwardly), speculating that the
+Blond Terror really was a
+muscled man. All that man&mdash;nearly
+seven feet tall, bronzed,
+developed, imperious, condescending
+to notice just slightly
+the adulations of the women in
+the packed arena.</p>
+
+<p>The Blond Terror stepped into
+the tub, carrying out his advertised
+boast of being the cleanest
+wrestler in the ring, a boast he
+was unable to prove with ring
+action through the exigencies of
+type-casting, for the Blond Terror
+was the villain.</p>
+
+<p>The Blond Terror muscled
+down into the tub. He was scrubbed,
+then rinsed. He stood out
+onto the white fur rug and sneeringly
+allowed his handmaidens to
+pat him dry and powder him
+down. They held up the large
+hand mirror and allowed him to
+view his handsomeness while his
+short-cropped, blond curls were
+carefully combed.</p>
+
+<p>"Now." Boswellister spoke the
+order into the lapel receiver. On
+the Ipplinger starship a communications
+tech slapped home a
+switch and the solido-vision circle
+settled over the Blond Terror's
+head, a halo of solid light for a
+complex Ipplinger signal-reaction
+device.</p>
+
+<p>"Hail Ippling!" Boswellister
+shouted.</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister strained forward,
+clutching the seat arms. It had to
+work! His equation must be right!
+The symbol had the proper cultural
+connotations. It was bound
+to capture the audience, put them
+in the right mood of awe-struck
+superstitious reverence, make the
+revelation of the great circle of
+the Ipplinger starship overhead a
+thing of wonderment and devotion-focus.</p>
+
+<p>The Blond Terror should now
+look upwards, guide the eyes of
+the audience, bring them to the
+recognition. After all, as a Boswellister ...
+and according to his
+great grandfather, and his poppa
+too....</p>
+
+<p>But the Blond Terror gazed
+appreciatively into the mirror,
+smiling slyly at the audience.</p>
+
+<p>The crowd roared its applause
+for the trick lighting effect. You
+could depend on the Blond Terror.
+No matter how many times
+you'd seen his act, he always managed
+to come up with something
+new. Now, for the opening of the
+new Million Dollar Ventura Boulevard
+Open Air Sports Arena, the
+Blond Terror had done it again.</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister shouted. He
+pointed. He stared upwards, trying
+to draw the crowd with his
+vehemence. But he couldn't capture
+one gaze, no matter what he
+did.</p>
+
+<p>He poked the man seated next
+to him, but the surly fool snarled,
+"Shuddup! The Hatchet Man's
+goin' into his act!"</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Boswellister</span> moaned.
+There it was, sailing in the
+night sky, illuminated with soft
+etherealness to give the proper
+effect to these superstition-ridden
+people. All they had to do was
+glance up and accord to Ippling
+the superiority that was Ippling's,
+and they would be brought
+gently, delicately into galactic
+contact, opening out their narrow
+ways into the broad ways of the
+galactic universal worlds. With
+Boswellister to lead them.</p>
+
+<p>But he couldn't make the play.
+Not a head would tilt up. The
+TV cameras that should be scanning
+the great lighted circle of the
+Ipplinger starship had swung to
+the entrance, waiting for the Hatchet
+Man.</p>
+
+<p>And here he came, down the
+aisle like a bolt of Chinese lightning.
+He vaulted the ropes,
+leaped to the tub, overturned it
+and was gone back up the aisle
+before the Blond Terror could retaliate.
+Bath water sopped the
+piles of robes and made a mess
+out of the bearskin rug; but the
+ring attendants carted everything
+off, removed the waterproof canvas
+from the ring mat and prepared
+to get the match underway.</p>
+
+<p>The Blond Terror paced in his
+corner, waving his hand mirror,
+challenging the Hatchet Man to
+quick, bloody death. And every
+few moments he'd stop to gaze
+admiringly into the mirror, running
+his hand along the edge of
+the solid band of light, grabbing
+all the credit for Ipplinger electronic
+science. He turned on cue
+to give the TV audience a full-face
+closeup.</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister cursed himself for
+choosing the Blond Terror. That
+cynical, egocentric muscle artist
+was too pleased with himself to
+have any room in his thoughts for
+proper superstitious awe, and too
+stupid to recognize the superior
+science in back of the halo device.</p>
+
+<p>"Remove the device," Boswellister
+ordered. There was no point
+in allowing it to stay, and that
+band of solid light, immovably in
+place on the wrestler's head, made
+a perfect battering ram for head-butting
+mayhem.</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister paid no attention
+to the gladiators-at-mat; he left
+his seat as soon as the device was
+removed and walked out onto
+Ventura Boulevard. He went
+over his cultural equation, trying
+to find the flaw.</p>
+
+<p>In the year he had spent on
+the preliminary survey, he had
+assessed this cultural equation to
+the last decimal point of surety.
+He had absolute faith in these
+people's superstitions. He knew
+what to expect; but somewhere
+the equation had been off. He
+should have chosen a quieter
+event, he guessed. The audience
+had been too well schooled in the
+acceptance of the spectacular.</p>
+
+<p>What was needed was a more
+acute contrast, and suddenly he
+had it: the burlesque runway. He
+had watched it many times ... and
+there was one girl, a big-bodied
+blonde with mild eyes.</p>
+
+<p>He checked his watch and hurried
+his pace. It was about time
+for Dodie's turn on the runway
+that extended out from the front
+of the gambling house.</p>
+
+<p>With satisfaction, Boswellister
+called up the memory of Dodie's
+peel act. This would be a natural,
+and he couldn't think why he
+hadn't decided on it right away.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">In</span> many ways Dodie was a big
+girl. In clothes she could
+never be the fashion ideal, but she
+certainly made a good thing out
+of nakedness. Her soft, heavy,
+white breasts made old men
+blanch and young men start to
+grab. She was tall, with a narrow
+waist, flaring hips, long curvy legs
+and arms; with those big, innocent
+blue eyes, wearing high
+heels and an ounce of flimsy, up
+there on the burlesque runway ...
+mmm ... Boswellister groaned.</p>
+
+<p>She wouldn't date Boswellister
+a second time no matter what he
+promised, and his promises had
+included many things she'd never
+before heard of. Boswellister
+squirmed momentarily.</p>
+
+<p>It was too bad there wasn't a
+better crowd. Most of the Boulevard's
+regulars were at the Arena
+opening, but there were a few
+loiterers, standing along the curb,
+watching the free show. And all
+he had to do was make a beginning,
+Boswellister felt. He was
+sure that everything would roll by
+itself after that. He had faith in
+his superstition equation.</p>
+
+<p>Dodie peeled. She seemed
+headed for complete nakedness at
+any moment, but to Boswellister's
+surprise, the revealing costume
+contained more pieces than he
+had remembered.</p>
+
+<p>"Any moment now," he whispered
+to the solido-tech. "Now,
+wait ... there ... that should be
+the last piece. Settle the device
+around her head," he ordered.
+Then he groaned and countermanded
+the order. He had remembered
+Dodie's details, not
+her act. For at the last moment
+she slipped to the wings, dropping
+the last swatch of lace to
+slide down one long, white, out-thrust
+leg.</p>
+
+<p>Oh, blessed Ippling! There was
+his ship, floating majestically
+overhead, but no one would give
+it a glance. He pointed to it.
+These men <i>must</i> follow his excited
+gestures and look up; but
+they were busy calling suggestions
+to the line of ponies who had
+taken over the runway. Boswellister
+felt as if he were standing in a
+desert, surrounded by a mob of
+phantoms from his own imagination.</p>
+
+<p>The crying voice of the gambling-house
+barker rode in over
+the clang and brass of jazzy music,
+but he couldn't turn the tip. As
+soon as the line-girls left the over-the-sidewalk
+runway, the idlers
+moved on down the street to take
+in the next spot's free outdoor lure
+show.</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister leaned against the
+wall and watched the barker wipe
+his sweat-soaked forehead. He
+felt kinship with the man in his
+failure. The manager came out
+and talked to the barker for a
+moment. Boswellister overheard:
+"Dodie didn't draw one customer.
+A buck ain't to be made these
+days."</p>
+
+<p>The barker replied, shaking his
+head, "They're oversold, Marve.
+The give-away is all they want."</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister turned away and
+walked towards his motel. They
+wanted the give-away, but the
+glory of Ippling he had to give
+made no impression. He felt desperate.
+He had to make one more
+try.</p>
+
+<p>His family position demanded
+obedience from the starship officers
+and crew. He stopped for a
+moment and gave a swift command
+into the lapel pickup, then
+went on to his motel room.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">The</span> next morning, full of confidence
+after a good breakfast,
+he headed for the intersection
+of Laurel Canyon and
+Ventura Boulevards. There he
+would make his stand.</p>
+
+<p>The boulevard swarmed with
+women shoppers. Cars and trucks
+roared by. The spectacular signs
+and free lure show runways were
+closed down, for ballyhoo of a
+different character had taken
+their place for the daytime.</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister stopped for a
+moment to watch a demonstrator
+work before a huge, block-long,
+glittering drugstore.</p>
+
+<p>The demonstrator went into
+his pitch:</p>
+
+<p>"&mdash;money back. Now watch!
+Into a wet glass I pour a small
+amount of medically tested Calsobisidine.
+See how the Calsobisidine
+clings to the sides of the
+wet glass."</p>
+
+<p>The pitchman smiled with
+flawless teeth and the women
+smiled back at him. His shoes
+were waxed and buffed; his hair
+fell in a black curl across his high
+forehead; his gardenia dripped
+dew like the ones in the box by
+his elbow. Each bottle of Calsobisidine
+came complete with an
+intimate smile from the pitchman,
+a fresh gardenia pinned on
+the breast by his clever fingers
+and a trial sample bottle. Just for
+six ninety-five, plus tax.</p>
+
+<p>"In the exact same manner,
+Calsobisidine clings to the lining
+of your stomach and intestines,
+giving positive relief from burning
+pain and acid indigestion."</p>
+
+<p>This puzzled Boswellister, and
+he remarked in a voice that
+seemed overloud, "But who has
+glass insides?"</p>
+
+<p>The women giggled and turned
+away.</p>
+
+<p>The pitchman's scowl was a
+menace; his voice bitter: "Go on,
+scram. You queered my tip."</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister slipped away
+while the pitchman started to collect
+a new crowd. He popped into
+the entrance of the drugstore, and
+as always stood momentarily
+amazed by the bewildering variety
+of merchandise. Gardening
+implements, paper goods, dishes
+and glassware, whiskey, Calsobisidine,
+a huge display of baby dolls
+that performed every human
+function but reproduction....</p>
+
+<p>Then he gasped and walked
+towards the inside demonstration.
+There, presided over by a fake
+medical man, dressed in operating
+room regalia, including mask,
+rubber gloves and stethoscope;
+there, right in the middle of the
+block-long drugstore, a demonstration
+of the newest educational
+doll was taking place. The doll,
+stretched out on a miniature hospital
+delivery table, was being delivered
+of a replica new-born infant.</p>
+
+<p>Again and again the "doctor"
+performed the delivery, alternately
+inserting the doll-baby into
+the doll-mamma and removing it.</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister flushed and
+walked quickly away. He had no
+doubt of the toy's educational
+value, but nevertheless&mdash;he
+sighed deeply.</p>
+
+<p>When Boswellister reached the
+corner of Ventura and Laurel
+Canyon, he made his stand on
+the southeast corner, facing the
+hills over which the Ipplinger
+starship would come to hover
+over the intersection and be revealed
+by him.</p>
+
+<p>He contacted control and ordered
+the halo focus for his head.
+He reached up and felt the circle,
+planted firmly over his brow. He
+smiled to himself and went into
+his pitch.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">"People</span> of Earth," he began
+in a quavering voice, then
+he remembered the Calsobisidine
+demonstrator, firmed up his tones
+and started again. "People of
+Earth! Listen to the message
+from the stars!"</p>
+
+<p>"Selling horoscopes," a woman
+answered her child's question.</p>
+
+<p>"What's a horrorscope, mamma?"</p>
+
+<p>"A bunch of hooey," she
+snapped in reply, scowled at Boswellister
+and jerked her child
+complainingly down the street behind her.</p>
+
+<p>"People of Earth!" Boswellister
+stated commandingly. He
+grasped a man's arm, saying,
+"Stand still a moment, friend, and
+hear the promise of Ippling. Glory
+beyond your imagination can be
+yours with the ascendancy of Ippling
+in this world of tears and
+sorrows."</p>
+
+<p>The man jerked away. "What
+the hell, Mac!" He looked searchingly
+at Boswellister and muttered,
+"Geez, a nut." He stood
+back from Boswellister to listen,
+smilingly superior, tolerantly
+waiting to be entertained. A
+woman dragging a toddler
+stopped, then several other people
+stopped to see until Boswellister
+had about ten people standing
+around him.</p>
+
+<p>"People of Earth!" he started in
+again, but he was interrupted by
+a cackling voice from the rear.</p>
+
+<p>"Where else?"</p>
+
+<p>The small crowd laughed and
+started to move away, but Boswellister
+stood straight and commanded
+them. "Listen! Wait for
+a moment and learn your glorious
+destiny.</p>
+
+<p>"Now," he said quietly into the
+lapel pickup, and the great doughnut
+circle of the Ipplinger starship
+sailed in close over the hills.
+A line of brush fire followed the
+starship.</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister held up his hands
+and pointed. "Behold the glory of
+Ippling that can be yours!" He
+held onto the halo, trying to get
+them to follow the symbolism.
+"Look upwards!" He screamed at
+them, but they watched the brush
+fire that swept the hill top. It was
+a goodie. It would wipe out a
+number of homes.</p>
+
+<p>He grabbed a boy by the arm
+and demanded, "Look at the Ipplinger
+starship. Behold the glory
+of Ippling!"</p>
+
+<p>The ten-year-old sneered.
+"Yah! That's the new 1993 Lockheed
+X69-P37 experimental ship.
+I got a model last week."</p>
+
+<p>"No, no, lad! The Ipplinger
+starship, come to Earth to bring
+the blessings of Ippling's culture
+to this backwards planet. Ippling
+will save you from wars and ills,
+from poverty and hatred. Ippling
+will be your destiny. Follow me,
+Boswellister! Ippling will lead
+you to the stars! Glory for all!"
+Boswellister patted the boy on
+the head.</p>
+
+<p>"Keep your hands off me, you
+big stiff!"</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister gulped and pointed
+upwards. "See the Ipplinger
+starship!"</p>
+
+<p>"Aah! Shuddup!"</p>
+
+<p>His mother jerked his arm in
+reproof. "How many times I've
+gotta tell you not to say, shuddup.
+Say, SHUT UP! S-H-U-T U-P!"</p>
+
+<p>"Aah!" the boy said in disgust.
+"Everybody knows starships are
+big rockets!" He'd said the final
+word; he had no more interest in
+Boswellister, for the fire engines
+were coming.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">They</span> sirened down Ventura
+and turned up Laurel Canyon,
+their heavy motors, air horns
+and sirens drowning out Boswellister's
+speech. Cars had piled
+up at the intersection to wait for
+the fire engines to make their
+swing, and Boswellister leaped to
+the middle of the intersection as
+soon as the trucks had turned.</p>
+
+<p>He held up his arms and went
+into his <i>People of Earth</i> spiel
+again. But angry, blasting horns
+cut his voice to nothing. The
+drivers pressed close in on him,
+pinpointing him in the middle of
+the intersection. Shouts and jeers
+and horns; the roaring scream of
+fire engines; people running and
+shouting; Ventura at Laurel Canyon
+was a cacophonous maelstrom.</p>
+
+<p>A traffic officer screeched his
+copcycle to a halt and made his
+way to the center of the mass of
+tangled traffic. He blew his whistle
+and waved his arms, ordering
+Boswellister to the sidewalk, but
+Boswellister refused to move. He
+had his mission on Earth.</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister shouted over the
+piled-up noise, waving his hand
+to the sky, calling to them to follow
+his lead to the glory of
+Ippling.</p>
+
+<p>The officer grabbed his coat
+collar and hustled him to the
+sidewalk. "You're under arrest!"</p>
+
+<p>"You can't arrest <i>me</i>!" Boswellister
+squirmed and jerked away.
+He shouted, "Follow me!" and ran
+north, a good part of the crowd
+after him. He shrieked an order
+into the pickup while he ran over
+the bridge towards Moorpark.</p>
+
+<p>A woman spotted the Ipplinger
+starship that followed overhead.
+"Free samples!" she screamed,
+and those who had lagged behind
+fell into a run with the crowd following
+Boswellister.</p>
+
+<p>The northwest corner of Laurel
+Canyon and Moorpark had been
+cleared of houses for the erection
+of a new billion-dollar shopping
+center, and the ground was
+smooth and bare. Here, in the
+center of the five-acre construction
+site, the Ipplinger starship
+settled to Earth.</p>
+
+<p>The Ipplinger Supreme Starship
+Commander was panic-stricken.
+He had to rescue Boswellister
+from that sample-seeking mob.
+If Boswellister should
+be trampled and injured! Each
+screamed demand, picked up by
+Boswellister's lapel microphone,
+sent the Supreme Commander's
+blood pressure up another notch,
+and the moment the ramp was
+unshipped he hit the ground.</p>
+
+<p>Officers and crewmen quickly
+lined up to pipe Boswellister
+aboard. But the crowd pushed in
+close, forcing Boswellister to the
+rear as they screamed for their
+free samples. Two bulky crewmen
+stood embattled by the entrance
+port, strong-arming the kids
+who tried to storm through the
+port and inside.</p>
+
+<p>"Space Angel's inside!" That
+was their battle cry as they tried
+to wriggle under the legs of the
+crewmen.</p>
+
+<p>"Ya sellin' Oatbombs?" one
+screamed in the commander's ear,
+then reached up to snatch off a
+shoulder patch.</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister stood in the rear
+of the crowd and wrung his hands
+while the crowd clamored for
+their samples.</p>
+
+<p>"Give us the pitch, then pass
+out the stuff!"</p>
+
+<p>"Lookit that ship! Ain't it a
+dilly! Whatcha sellin', Wheatsnaps?"</p>
+
+<p>"Bring on the dames!"</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">They</span> pressed in close to the
+starship, running their hands
+over the slick metal surface.</p>
+
+<p>"Boy, what a prop! Bet it cost
+a million bucks. What ya sellin',
+mister?"</p>
+
+<p>"Sanity!" Boswellister shouted
+from the rear.</p>
+
+<p>His men tried to hold their
+ranks, but the crowd broke the
+lines, jerking the medals off their
+chests for souvenirs.</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister was almost babbling
+by the time the commander
+and his men battled their way to
+him.</p>
+
+<p>"You saw it all! You know!"
+Boswellister protested. "That
+Blond Terror and his harem darlings,
+and those violence-avid
+ruffians in the audience! Dodie,
+the stripper, with her lip-licking
+ogglers! That Calsobisidine pitchman,
+oozing allure and implied
+invitation! My equation! My precious
+equation, buried under a
+mass of pills, lotions, toys, food,
+clothes and everything sold with
+a bump and grind!"</p>
+
+<p>They fought to the ship with
+him, while the crowd opposed
+each step, yelling for entertainment,
+for TV cameras, for samples
+of anything.</p>
+
+<p>"How could I have missed it?"
+Boswellister moaned. "I should
+have sold them with sex, right
+from the beginning."</p>
+
+<p>"What do you do, handsome?
+Sing?" A bundle-clutching housewife
+breathed into his face, stepping
+on the commander's foot as
+she shoved in close to Boswellister.</p>
+
+<p>"Take me home!" Boswellister
+beseeched the commander.</p>
+
+<p>The officers and crew, tattered,
+demedaled, bruised and completely
+defeated in morale,
+formed a flying wedge and drove
+for the safety of the ship.</p>
+
+<p>The ramp retracted. The port
+closed, then opened briefly to
+eject a nosey boy, closing finally
+on the demands and the mocking
+laughter and the clangor of arriving
+police cars.</p>
+
+<p>"Raise ship!" the commander
+ordered. He sopped at the blood
+from his gashed arm and said to
+his first officer, "Somebody in that
+mob used a knife to go after those
+service stripes."</p>
+
+<p>The first shuddered. "Ugly
+brutes."</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister leaned against the
+corridor bulkhead and sighed as
+the Ipplinger starship rose from
+the ground. How could he explain
+to his poppa? All his brothers had
+won their worlds. He <i>would</i> do it.
+He squared his shoulders. After
+all, he was a Boswellister. Boswellister
+XIV, no less. A son of Gaphroldshan
+IX himself, the Prince
+of Ippling World LXIV, a Royal
+Prince of the Central Ippling.</p>
+
+<p>He walked resolutely to the
+control room, riding the crest of
+his refurbished dignity.</p>
+
+<p>"Put me down on that planet
+we spotted last year," he ordered.
+"What was that star map number?"</p>
+
+<p>"G.S.R. 285139-F. R. A. 592-105-R.U. 13,"
+his alert assistant
+astronomical officer answered,
+reading the number from a prepared memorandum.</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister hesitated. Should
+he reprimand the officer for anticipating
+his failure or compliment
+him for his efficiency? Boswellister
+backed water and went
+to his room to learn the language
+he'd need, while the officers
+pulled their own demoralized
+spirits together so they could go
+to work on the crew when the
+news broke that they weren't going
+home.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">They</span> made a quick passage to
+their destination, and Boswellister&mdash;well
+rested, well fed,
+hypnotically tutored, supplied
+with communicators, a synthesizer
+for his food and a portable
+equation writer strapped to his
+back, and his irrepressible, dauntless
+belief in himself in triumphant
+operation&mdash;stepped from
+the ramp onto this newest world
+of his Princely destiny.</p>
+
+<p>"Circle in orbit," he ordered.
+"I'll call you when I need you."</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister walked confidently
+down the road to town.
+He congratulated himself on having
+learned, also on his wise humility
+in admitting the fact of his
+having learned. He smiled now at
+the naivet&eacute; with which he had
+approached his first try at establishing
+a realm for his Ipplinger
+Princedom rights.</p>
+
+<p>He had been so full of illusions
+that he had landed openly, had
+stepped right up and announced
+that he had come to establish his
+household and rear his own Princes,
+who would, in their maturity,
+leave to win their own worlds. In
+addition to their being small-minded
+on that first world about
+his needing five wives for his
+household, they had nearly managed
+to commit him to a lunatic
+asylum, for he had overlooked, in
+his equation, the fact that his first
+planet, with its two suns and perpetual
+daylight, had never known
+about the stars. There had been
+no way to break through their
+wall of stupidity, and he had left,
+the planet's sanity-police close on
+his heels. Had he used money it
+would have been a cinch, he had
+realized as soon as he was safely
+in the ship.</p>
+
+<p>That hard-earned lesson he
+had applied to his second planet,
+but there superstition meant
+more than money, though money
+had seemed on the surface to be
+the answer to everything. On that
+second planet he had made the
+error of buying his way into the
+half-political, half-religious temple
+setup, and had tried to bring
+the local superstitions into line
+with Ipplinger Reality Philosophy.
+They had lost an officer and
+three men when they rescued him
+from the temple's torture chamber;
+and none too soon, for he
+had been taking quite a stretching
+when his rescue had arrived.</p>
+
+<p>Applied on Earth, the superstition
+equation had not paid off.
+He had failed to notice that they
+didn't really believe in their religions
+and superstitions, though
+they showed every indication of
+being extremely devout and credulous.
+He should have sold Earth,
+and sold it with sex.</p>
+
+<p>Well, he had learned, all right,
+and here, on this new world, in
+this fresh start, he would show
+how well he had learned. In the
+idiom of Ventura Boulevard, he'd
+hit 'em with the whole deck,
+deuces wild. He'd give 'em sex
+and money and superstition and
+to hell with fact and logic.</p>
+
+<p>These primitive worlds had to
+be brought slowly into a respect
+for logic; for Ipplinger logic, the
+only valid system of logic in the
+whole universe.</p>
+
+<p>In the hovering ship, the commander
+turned to the astrogator
+and said, with the bitterness of
+yesterday's conflict with the mutinous
+crew evident in his voice,
+"Well, our little vaporized circuit
+is off again." He motioned to the
+image of Boswellister in the forward
+viewscreen.</p>
+
+<p>It was a sight that tended to
+increase the tremor in the astrogator's
+hands. He replied, "I only
+hope we can pull the crew
+through another pickup. Home
+and family! Do they think I want
+mine any less?"</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister marched confidently
+down the road. He <i>would</i>
+succeed, for didn't he have the
+well oiled machinery of the whole
+Ipplinger starship crew of cultural
+contact specialists to back
+him up?</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">While</span> he walked, he practiced
+the strident-voiced delivery
+of extravagant lies he had
+learned so well and had so magnificently
+imitated from the Ventura
+Boulevard pitch artists. He
+practiced the leering insinuendo
+of the barker outside the gambling
+hall; he gave it the Calsobisidine
+con come-on; he sold it
+solid, dripping with sex, twitching
+with lure.</p>
+
+<p>He knew that here, finally, he
+would succeed.</p>
+
+<p>Boswellister XIV, Noble
+Prince of Ippling, smiled his confidence
+in his sex-money-superstition
+equation as he walked
+briskly down the road to begin
+his contact with a world that had
+substituted vat-culture procreation
+for sex; that had abolished
+money in favor of a complicated
+system of verbal, personal-honor
+swapping credits; that had no religions
+or superstitions. A world of
+people who considered the most
+sweetly distilled essence of living
+to be the minute investigation of
+the fine points of logical discourse,
+engaged in on the basis of
+an incredibly multiplied logic
+structure composed of thirty-seven
+separate systems of discursive
+regulations, the very first of
+which was based on a planetary
+absolute, the rejection and ridicule
+of all persuasive techniques
+and those who used them.</p>
+
+<p class="rgt"><b>&mdash;HELEN M. URBAN</b></p>
+
+<div class="trans1">
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 148px;">
+<img src="images/001.jpg" width="148" height="198" alt="" title="" />
+</div>
+<big><b>Transcriber's Note:</b></big><br /><br />
+This etext was produced from <i>Galaxy</i> December 1962. Extensive
+research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
+copyright on this publication was renewed.<br /><br />Minor spelling and
+typographical errors have been corrected without note.</div>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Glory of Ippling, by Helen M. Urban
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+</body>
+</html>
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@@ -0,0 +1,1015 @@
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Glory of Ippling, by Helen M. Urban
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Glory of Ippling
+
+Author: Helen M. Urban
+
+Release Date: October 24, 2007 [EBook #23185]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GLORY OF IPPLING ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Note:
+
+    This etext was produced from _Galaxy_ December 1962. Extensive
+    research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on
+    this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical
+    errors have been corrected without note. Subscript characters are
+    shown within {braces}.
+
+
+
+
+      _He brought them life and hope.
+ Why wouldn't the fools take it from him?_
+
+
+             By HELEN M. URBAN
+
+
+
+               THE GLORY OF
+                  IPPLING
+
+
+There's an axiom in the galaxy: The more complicated the machine, the
+bigger mess it can make. Like the time the planetary computer for
+Buughabyta flipped its complete grain-futures series. The computer
+ordered only 15 acres, and Buughabytians had to live for a full year off
+the government's stored surplus--thus pounding down the surplus, forcing
+up the price, eliminating the subsidy and balancing the Buughabytian
+budget for fifteen years--an unprecedented bit of nonsense that almost
+had permanent effects. But a career economist with an eye for flubup and
+complication managed to restore balanced disorder, bringing Buughabyta
+right back to normalcy.
+
+Or like the time a matter-duplicator receiver misread OCH{3}CH{3}OH, to
+turn out a magnificently busted blonde sphygmomano-raiser with an
+HOCH{3}OH replacement, putting a strain on the loyalty of a billion
+teen-age girls dedicated to Doyle Oglevie worship. Doyle-she insisted
+she was Doyle-he, as it took quite a while for her hormones to overcome
+the memory of his easy, eyelash-flapping, tone-torturing microphone
+conquests. Put a strain on his wardrobe, too.
+
+No machine, of course, can compare for complexity with any group of
+humans who have been collected into machine-like precision of
+operation. Take one time when an Ipplinger Cultural Contact Group was
+handed a Boswellister with V.I.P. connections and orders to put him to
+an assignment--for his maturity.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Boswellister sat patiently. He squirmed emotionally up and down his
+backbone, but he affected a disdainful appearance of patience in view of
+the importance of his and his poppa's positions compared with the
+pawn-like minusculity of the audience's.
+
+The Blond Terror strode majestically down the aisle of the open air
+sports arena, preceded by twenty-four harem-darling dancing girls. The
+orchestra wailed an oriental sinuosity of woodwinds and drums,
+accompanying the hip-twitching, nearly naked, sloe- (by benefit of
+make-up) eyed, black-haired beauties.
+
+Fifteen heavyweights, draped in leopard skins, had preceded the dancers
+to set up the Blond Terror's tub on a polar bear rug in the center of
+the ring. A dozen luscious watercarriers had emptied their jars into the
+tub. Soap and towels, oils and perfumes, mirror and comb, were arranged
+on top of a lushly ornamented box that stood by one of the corner posts.
+
+The Blond Terror vaulted the ropes and stood in the ring, popping his
+muscles, waiting for his handmaidens to remove the five layers of
+elaborately decorated robes that were draped over his super-manly body.
+
+Boswellister cringed slightly (inwardly), speculating that the Blond
+Terror really was a muscled man. All that man--nearly seven feet tall,
+bronzed, developed, imperious, condescending to notice just slightly the
+adulations of the women in the packed arena.
+
+The Blond Terror stepped into the tub, carrying out his advertised boast
+of being the cleanest wrestler in the ring, a boast he was unable to
+prove with ring action through the exigencies of type-casting, for the
+Blond Terror was the villain.
+
+The Blond Terror muscled down into the tub. He was scrubbed, then
+rinsed. He stood out onto the white fur rug and sneeringly allowed his
+handmaidens to pat him dry and powder him down. They held up the large
+hand mirror and allowed him to view his handsomeness while his
+short-cropped, blond curls were carefully combed.
+
+"Now." Boswellister spoke the order into the lapel receiver. On the
+Ipplinger starship a communications tech slapped home a switch and the
+solido-vision circle settled over the Blond Terror's head, a halo of
+solid light for a complex Ipplinger signal-reaction device.
+
+"Hail Ippling!" Boswellister shouted.
+
+Boswellister strained forward, clutching the seat arms. It had to work!
+His equation must be right! The symbol had the proper cultural
+connotations. It was bound to capture the audience, put them in the
+right mood of awe-struck superstitious reverence, make the revelation of
+the great circle of the Ipplinger starship overhead a thing of
+wonderment and devotion-focus.
+
+The Blond Terror should now look upwards, guide the eyes of the
+audience, bring them to the recognition. After all, as a Boswellister
+... and according to his great grandfather, and his poppa too....
+
+But the Blond Terror gazed appreciatively into the mirror, smiling slyly
+at the audience.
+
+The crowd roared its applause for the trick lighting effect. You could
+depend on the Blond Terror. No matter how many times you'd seen his act,
+he always managed to come up with something new. Now, for the opening of
+the new Million Dollar Ventura Boulevard Open Air Sports Arena, the
+Blond Terror had done it again.
+
+Boswellister shouted. He pointed. He stared upwards, trying to draw the
+crowd with his vehemence. But he couldn't capture one gaze, no matter
+what he did.
+
+He poked the man seated next to him, but the surly fool snarled,
+"Shuddup! The Hatchet Man's goin' into his act!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Boswellister moaned. There it was, sailing in the night sky, illuminated
+with soft etherealness to give the proper effect to these
+superstition-ridden people. All they had to do was glance up and accord
+to Ippling the superiority that was Ippling's, and they would be brought
+gently, delicately into galactic contact, opening out their narrow ways
+into the broad ways of the galactic universal worlds. With Boswellister
+to lead them.
+
+But he couldn't make the play. Not a head would tilt up. The TV cameras
+that should be scanning the great lighted circle of the Ipplinger
+starship had swung to the entrance, waiting for the Hatchet Man.
+
+And here he came, down the aisle like a bolt of Chinese lightning. He
+vaulted the ropes, leaped to the tub, overturned it and was gone back up
+the aisle before the Blond Terror could retaliate. Bath water sopped the
+piles of robes and made a mess out of the bearskin rug; but the ring
+attendants carted everything off, removed the waterproof canvas from the
+ring mat and prepared to get the match underway.
+
+The Blond Terror paced in his corner, waving his hand mirror,
+challenging the Hatchet Man to quick, bloody death. And every few
+moments he'd stop to gaze admiringly into the mirror, running his hand
+along the edge of the solid band of light, grabbing all the credit for
+Ipplinger electronic science. He turned on cue to give the TV audience a
+full-face closeup.
+
+Boswellister cursed himself for choosing the Blond Terror. That cynical,
+egocentric muscle artist was too pleased with himself to have any room
+in his thoughts for proper superstitious awe, and too stupid to
+recognize the superior science in back of the halo device.
+
+"Remove the device," Boswellister ordered. There was no point in
+allowing it to stay, and that band of solid light, immovably in place on
+the wrestler's head, made a perfect battering ram for head-butting
+mayhem.
+
+Boswellister paid no attention to the gladiators-at-mat; he left his
+seat as soon as the device was removed and walked out onto Ventura
+Boulevard. He went over his cultural equation, trying to find the flaw.
+
+In the year he had spent on the preliminary survey, he had assessed this
+cultural equation to the last decimal point of surety. He had absolute
+faith in these people's superstitions. He knew what to expect; but
+somewhere the equation had been off. He should have chosen a quieter
+event, he guessed. The audience had been too well schooled in the
+acceptance of the spectacular.
+
+What was needed was a more acute contrast, and suddenly he had it: the
+burlesque runway. He had watched it many times ... and there was one
+girl, a big-bodied blonde with mild eyes.
+
+He checked his watch and hurried his pace. It was about time for Dodie's
+turn on the runway that extended out from the front of the gambling
+house.
+
+With satisfaction, Boswellister called up the memory of Dodie's peel
+act. This would be a natural, and he couldn't think why he hadn't
+decided on it right away.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In many ways Dodie was a big girl. In clothes she could never be the
+fashion ideal, but she certainly made a good thing out of nakedness. Her
+soft, heavy, white breasts made old men blanch and young men start to
+grab. She was tall, with a narrow waist, flaring hips, long curvy legs
+and arms; with those big, innocent blue eyes, wearing high heels and an
+ounce of flimsy, up there on the burlesque runway ... mmm ...
+Boswellister groaned.
+
+She wouldn't date Boswellister a second time no matter what he
+promised, and his promises had included many things she'd never before
+heard of. Boswellister squirmed momentarily.
+
+It was too bad there wasn't a better crowd. Most of the Boulevard's
+regulars were at the Arena opening, but there were a few loiterers,
+standing along the curb, watching the free show. And all he had to do
+was make a beginning, Boswellister felt. He was sure that everything
+would roll by itself after that. He had faith in his superstition
+equation.
+
+Dodie peeled. She seemed headed for complete nakedness at any moment,
+but to Boswellister's surprise, the revealing costume contained more
+pieces than he had remembered.
+
+"Any moment now," he whispered to the solido-tech. "Now, wait ... there
+... that should be the last piece. Settle the device around her head,"
+he ordered. Then he groaned and countermanded the order. He had
+remembered Dodie's details, not her act. For at the last moment she
+slipped to the wings, dropping the last swatch of lace to slide down one
+long, white, out-thrust leg.
+
+Oh, blessed Ippling! There was his ship, floating majestically overhead,
+but no one would give it a glance. He pointed to it. These men _must_
+follow his excited gestures and look up; but they were busy calling
+suggestions to the line of ponies who had taken over the runway.
+Boswellister felt as if he were standing in a desert, surrounded by a
+mob of phantoms from his own imagination.
+
+The crying voice of the gambling-house barker rode in over the clang and
+brass of jazzy music, but he couldn't turn the tip. As soon as the
+line-girls left the over-the-sidewalk runway, the idlers moved on down
+the street to take in the next spot's free outdoor lure show.
+
+Boswellister leaned against the wall and watched the barker wipe his
+sweat-soaked forehead. He felt kinship with the man in his failure. The
+manager came out and talked to the barker for a moment. Boswellister
+overheard: "Dodie didn't draw one customer. A buck ain't to be made
+these days."
+
+The barker replied, shaking his head, "They're oversold, Marve. The
+give-away is all they want."
+
+Boswellister turned away and walked towards his motel. They wanted the
+give-away, but the glory of Ippling he had to give made no impression.
+He felt desperate. He had to make one more try.
+
+His family position demanded obedience from the starship officers and
+crew. He stopped for a moment and gave a swift command into the lapel
+pickup, then went on to his motel room.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The next morning, full of confidence after a good breakfast, he headed
+for the intersection of Laurel Canyon and Ventura Boulevards. There he
+would make his stand.
+
+The boulevard swarmed with women shoppers. Cars and trucks roared by.
+The spectacular signs and free lure show runways were closed down, for
+ballyhoo of a different character had taken their place for the daytime.
+
+Boswellister stopped for a moment to watch a demonstrator work before a
+huge, block-long, glittering drugstore.
+
+The demonstrator went into his pitch:
+
+"--money back. Now watch! Into a wet glass I pour a small amount of
+medically tested Calsobisidine. See how the Calsobisidine clings to the
+sides of the wet glass."
+
+The pitchman smiled with flawless teeth and the women smiled back at
+him. His shoes were waxed and buffed; his hair fell in a black curl
+across his high forehead; his gardenia dripped dew like the ones in the
+box by his elbow. Each bottle of Calsobisidine came complete with an
+intimate smile from the pitchman, a fresh gardenia pinned on the breast
+by his clever fingers and a trial sample bottle. Just for six
+ninety-five, plus tax.
+
+"In the exact same manner, Calsobisidine clings to the lining of your
+stomach and intestines, giving positive relief from burning pain and
+acid indigestion."
+
+This puzzled Boswellister, and he remarked in a voice that seemed
+overloud, "But who has glass insides?"
+
+The women giggled and turned away.
+
+The pitchman's scowl was a menace; his voice bitter: "Go on, scram. You
+queered my tip."
+
+Boswellister slipped away while the pitchman started to collect a new
+crowd. He popped into the entrance of the drugstore, and as always stood
+momentarily amazed by the bewildering variety of merchandise. Gardening
+implements, paper goods, dishes and glassware, whiskey, Calsobisidine, a
+huge display of baby dolls that performed every human function but
+reproduction....
+
+Then he gasped and walked towards the inside demonstration. There,
+presided over by a fake medical man, dressed in operating room regalia,
+including mask, rubber gloves and stethoscope; there, right in the
+middle of the block-long drugstore, a demonstration of the newest
+educational doll was taking place. The doll, stretched out on a
+miniature hospital delivery table, was being delivered of a replica
+new-born infant.
+
+Again and again the "doctor" performed the delivery, alternately
+inserting the doll-baby into the doll-mamma and removing it.
+
+Boswellister flushed and walked quickly away. He had no doubt of the
+toy's educational value, but nevertheless--he sighed deeply.
+
+When Boswellister reached the corner of Ventura and Laurel Canyon, he
+made his stand on the southeast corner, facing the hills over which the
+Ipplinger starship would come to hover over the intersection and be
+revealed by him.
+
+He contacted control and ordered the halo focus for his head. He reached
+up and felt the circle, planted firmly over his brow. He smiled to
+himself and went into his pitch.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"People of Earth," he began in a quavering voice, then he remembered the
+Calsobisidine demonstrator, firmed up his tones and started again.
+"People of Earth! Listen to the message from the stars!"
+
+"Selling horoscopes," a woman answered her child's question.
+
+"What's a horrorscope, mamma?"
+
+"A bunch of hooey," she snapped in reply, scowled at Boswellister and
+jerked her child complainingly down the street behind her.
+
+"People of Earth!" Boswellister stated commandingly. He grasped a man's
+arm, saying, "Stand still a moment, friend, and hear the promise of
+Ippling. Glory beyond your imagination can be yours with the ascendancy
+of Ippling in this world of tears and sorrows."
+
+The man jerked away. "What the hell, Mac!" He looked searchingly at
+Boswellister and muttered, "Geez, a nut." He stood back from
+Boswellister to listen, smilingly superior, tolerantly waiting to be
+entertained. A woman dragging a toddler stopped, then several other
+people stopped to see until Boswellister had about ten people standing
+around him.
+
+"People of Earth!" he started in again, but he was interrupted by a
+cackling voice from the rear.
+
+"Where else?"
+
+The small crowd laughed and started to move away, but Boswellister stood
+straight and commanded them. "Listen! Wait for a moment and learn your
+glorious destiny.
+
+"Now," he said quietly into the lapel pickup, and the great doughnut
+circle of the Ipplinger starship sailed in close over the hills. A line
+of brush fire followed the starship.
+
+Boswellister held up his hands and pointed. "Behold the glory of
+Ippling that can be yours!" He held onto the halo, trying to get them to
+follow the symbolism. "Look upwards!" He screamed at them, but they
+watched the brush fire that swept the hill top. It was a goodie. It
+would wipe out a number of homes.
+
+He grabbed a boy by the arm and demanded, "Look at the Ipplinger
+starship. Behold the glory of Ippling!"
+
+The ten-year-old sneered. "Yah! That's the new 1993 Lockheed X69-P37
+experimental ship. I got a model last week."
+
+"No, no, lad! The Ipplinger starship, come to Earth to bring the
+blessings of Ippling's culture to this backwards planet. Ippling will
+save you from wars and ills, from poverty and hatred. Ippling will be
+your destiny. Follow me, Boswellister! Ippling will lead you to the
+stars! Glory for all!" Boswellister patted the boy on the head.
+
+"Keep your hands off me, you big stiff!"
+
+Boswellister gulped and pointed upwards. "See the Ipplinger starship!"
+
+"Aah! Shuddup!"
+
+His mother jerked his arm in reproof. "How many times I've gotta tell
+you not to say, shuddup. Say, SHUT UP! S-H-U-T U-P!"
+
+"Aah!" the boy said in disgust. "Everybody knows starships are big
+rockets!" He'd said the final word; he had no more interest in
+Boswellister, for the fire engines were coming.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+They sirened down Ventura and turned up Laurel Canyon, their heavy
+motors, air horns and sirens drowning out Boswellister's speech. Cars
+had piled up at the intersection to wait for the fire engines to make
+their swing, and Boswellister leaped to the middle of the intersection
+as soon as the trucks had turned.
+
+He held up his arms and went into his _People of Earth_ spiel again. But
+angry, blasting horns cut his voice to nothing. The drivers pressed
+close in on him, pinpointing him in the middle of the intersection.
+Shouts and jeers and horns; the roaring scream of fire engines; people
+running and shouting; Ventura at Laurel Canyon was a cacophonous
+maelstrom.
+
+A traffic officer screeched his copcycle to a halt and made his way to
+the center of the mass of tangled traffic. He blew his whistle and waved
+his arms, ordering Boswellister to the sidewalk, but Boswellister
+refused to move. He had his mission on Earth.
+
+Boswellister shouted over the piled-up noise, waving his hand to the
+sky, calling to them to follow his lead to the glory of Ippling.
+
+The officer grabbed his coat collar and hustled him to the sidewalk.
+"You're under arrest!"
+
+"You can't arrest _me_!" Boswellister squirmed and jerked away. He
+shouted, "Follow me!" and ran north, a good part of the crowd after him.
+He shrieked an order into the pickup while he ran over the bridge
+towards Moorpark.
+
+A woman spotted the Ipplinger starship that followed overhead. "Free
+samples!" she screamed, and those who had lagged behind fell into a run
+with the crowd following Boswellister.
+
+The northwest corner of Laurel Canyon and Moorpark had been cleared of
+houses for the erection of a new billion-dollar shopping center, and the
+ground was smooth and bare. Here, in the center of the five-acre
+construction site, the Ipplinger starship settled to Earth.
+
+The Ipplinger Supreme Starship Commander was panic-stricken. He had to
+rescue Boswellister from that sample-seeking mob. If Boswellister should
+be trampled and injured! Each screamed demand, picked up by
+Boswellister's lapel microphone, sent the Supreme Commander's blood
+pressure up another notch, and the moment the ramp was unshipped he hit
+the ground.
+
+Officers and crewmen quickly lined up to pipe Boswellister aboard. But
+the crowd pushed in close, forcing Boswellister to the rear as they
+screamed for their free samples. Two bulky crewmen stood embattled by
+the entrance port, strong-arming the kids who tried to storm through the
+port and inside.
+
+"Space Angel's inside!" That was their battle cry as they tried to
+wriggle under the legs of the crewmen.
+
+"Ya sellin' Oatbombs?" one screamed in the commander's ear, then reached
+up to snatch off a shoulder patch.
+
+Boswellister stood in the rear of the crowd and wrung his hands while
+the crowd clamored for their samples.
+
+"Give us the pitch, then pass out the stuff!"
+
+"Lookit that ship! Ain't it a dilly! Whatcha sellin', Wheatsnaps?"
+
+"Bring on the dames!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+They pressed in close to the starship, running their hands over the
+slick metal surface.
+
+"Boy, what a prop! Bet it cost a million bucks. What ya sellin',
+mister?"
+
+"Sanity!" Boswellister shouted from the rear.
+
+His men tried to hold their ranks, but the crowd broke the lines,
+jerking the medals off their chests for souvenirs.
+
+Boswellister was almost babbling by the time the commander and his men
+battled their way to him.
+
+"You saw it all! You know!" Boswellister protested. "That Blond Terror
+and his harem darlings, and those violence-avid ruffians in the
+audience! Dodie, the stripper, with her lip-licking ogglers! That
+Calsobisidine pitchman, oozing allure and implied invitation! My
+equation! My precious equation, buried under a mass of pills, lotions,
+toys, food, clothes and everything sold with a bump and grind!"
+
+They fought to the ship with him, while the crowd opposed each step,
+yelling for entertainment, for TV cameras, for samples of anything.
+
+"How could I have missed it?" Boswellister moaned. "I should have sold
+them with sex, right from the beginning."
+
+"What do you do, handsome? Sing?" A bundle-clutching housewife breathed
+into his face, stepping on the commander's foot as she shoved in close
+to Boswellister.
+
+"Take me home!" Boswellister beseeched the commander.
+
+The officers and crew, tattered, demedaled, bruised and completely
+defeated in morale, formed a flying wedge and drove for the safety of
+the ship.
+
+The ramp retracted. The port closed, then opened briefly to eject a
+nosey boy, closing finally on the demands and the mocking laughter and
+the clangor of arriving police cars.
+
+"Raise ship!" the commander ordered. He sopped at the blood from his
+gashed arm and said to his first officer, "Somebody in that mob used a
+knife to go after those service stripes."
+
+The first shuddered. "Ugly brutes."
+
+Boswellister leaned against the corridor bulkhead and sighed as the
+Ipplinger starship rose from the ground. How could he explain to his
+poppa? All his brothers had won their worlds. He _would_ do it. He
+squared his shoulders. After all, he was a Boswellister. Boswellister
+XIV, no less. A son of Gaphroldshan IX himself, the Prince of Ippling
+World LXIV, a Royal Prince of the Central Ippling.
+
+He walked resolutely to the control room, riding the crest of his
+refurbished dignity.
+
+"Put me down on that planet we spotted last year," he ordered. "What was
+that star map number?"
+
+"G.S.R. 285139-F. R. A. 592-105-R.U. 13," his alert assistant
+astronomical officer answered, reading the number from a prepared
+memorandum.
+
+Boswellister hesitated. Should he reprimand the officer for anticipating
+his failure or compliment him for his efficiency? Boswellister backed
+water and went to his room to learn the language he'd need, while the
+officers pulled their own demoralized spirits together so they could go
+to work on the crew when the news broke that they weren't going home.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+They made a quick passage to their destination, and Boswellister--well
+rested, well fed, hypnotically tutored, supplied with communicators, a
+synthesizer for his food and a portable equation writer strapped to his
+back, and his irrepressible, dauntless belief in himself in triumphant
+operation--stepped from the ramp onto this newest world of his Princely
+destiny.
+
+"Circle in orbit," he ordered. "I'll call you when I need you."
+
+Boswellister walked confidently down the road to town. He congratulated
+himself on having learned, also on his wise humility in admitting the
+fact of his having learned. He smiled now at the naivete with which he
+had approached his first try at establishing a realm for his Ipplinger
+Princedom rights.
+
+He had been so full of illusions that he had landed openly, had stepped
+right up and announced that he had come to establish his household and
+rear his own Princes, who would, in their maturity, leave to win their
+own worlds. In addition to their being small-minded on that first world
+about his needing five wives for his household, they had nearly managed
+to commit him to a lunatic asylum, for he had overlooked, in his
+equation, the fact that his first planet, with its two suns and
+perpetual daylight, had never known about the stars. There had been no
+way to break through their wall of stupidity, and he had left, the
+planet's sanity-police close on his heels. Had he used money it would
+have been a cinch, he had realized as soon as he was safely in the ship.
+
+That hard-earned lesson he had applied to his second planet, but there
+superstition meant more than money, though money had seemed on the
+surface to be the answer to everything. On that second planet he had
+made the error of buying his way into the half-political, half-religious
+temple setup, and had tried to bring the local superstitions into line
+with Ipplinger Reality Philosophy. They had lost an officer and three
+men when they rescued him from the temple's torture chamber; and none
+too soon, for he had been taking quite a stretching when his rescue had
+arrived.
+
+Applied on Earth, the superstition equation had not paid off. He had
+failed to notice that they didn't really believe in their religions and
+superstitions, though they showed every indication of being extremely
+devout and credulous. He should have sold Earth, and sold it with sex.
+
+Well, he had learned, all right, and here, on this new world, in this
+fresh start, he would show how well he had learned. In the idiom of
+Ventura Boulevard, he'd hit 'em with the whole deck, deuces wild. He'd
+give 'em sex and money and superstition and to hell with fact and logic.
+
+These primitive worlds had to be brought slowly into a respect for
+logic; for Ipplinger logic, the only valid system of logic in the whole
+universe.
+
+In the hovering ship, the commander turned to the astrogator and said,
+with the bitterness of yesterday's conflict with the mutinous crew
+evident in his voice, "Well, our little vaporized circuit is off again."
+He motioned to the image of Boswellister in the forward viewscreen.
+
+It was a sight that tended to increase the tremor in the astrogator's
+hands. He replied, "I only hope we can pull the crew through another
+pickup. Home and family! Do they think I want mine any less?"
+
+Boswellister marched confidently down the road. He _would_ succeed, for
+didn't he have the well oiled machinery of the whole Ipplinger starship
+crew of cultural contact specialists to back him up?
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+While he walked, he practiced the strident-voiced delivery of
+extravagant lies he had learned so well and had so magnificently
+imitated from the Ventura Boulevard pitch artists. He practiced the
+leering insinuendo of the barker outside the gambling hall; he gave it
+the Calsobisidine con come-on; he sold it solid, dripping with sex,
+twitching with lure.
+
+He knew that here, finally, he would succeed.
+
+Boswellister XIV, Noble Prince of Ippling, smiled his confidence in his
+sex-money-superstition equation as he walked briskly down the road to
+begin his contact with a world that had substituted vat-culture
+procreation for sex; that had abolished money in favor of a complicated
+system of verbal, personal-honor swapping credits; that had no religions
+or superstitions. A world of people who considered the most sweetly
+distilled essence of living to be the minute investigation of the fine
+points of logical discourse, engaged in on the basis of an incredibly
+multiplied logic structure composed of thirty-seven separate systems of
+discursive regulations, the very first of which was based on a planetary
+absolute, the rejection and ridicule of all persuasive techniques and
+those who used them.
+
+                                                      --HELEN M. URBAN
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Glory of Ippling, by Helen M. Urban
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