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diff --git a/23185.txt b/23185.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bab58ae --- /dev/null +++ b/23185.txt @@ -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. 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