The Glory of Ippling Read online

beforeheard of. Boswellister squirmed momentarily.

  It was too bad there wasn't a better crowd. Most of the Boulevard'sregulars were at the Arena opening, but there were a few loiterers,standing along the curb, watching the free show. And all he had to dowas make a beginning, Boswellister felt. He was sure that everythingwould roll by itself after that. He had faith in his superstitionequation.

  Dodie peeled. She seemed headed for complete nakedness at any moment,but to Boswellister's surprise, the revealing costume contained morepieces 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 hadremembered Dodie's details, not her act. For at the last moment sheslipped to the wings, dropping the last swatch of lace to slide down onelong, 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 callingsuggestions to the line of ponies who had taken over the runway.Boswellister felt as if he were standing in a desert, surrounded by amob of phantoms from his own imagination.

  The crying voice of the gambling-house barker rode in over the clang andbrass of jazzy music, but he couldn't turn the tip. As soon as theline-girls left the over-the-sidewalk runway, the idlers moved on downthe street to take in the next spot's free outdoor lure show.

  Boswellister leaned against the wall and watched the barker wipe hissweat-soaked forehead. He felt kinship with the man in his failure. Themanager came out and talked to the barker for a moment. Boswellisteroverheard: "Dodie didn't draw one customer. A buck ain't to be madethese days."

  The barker replied, shaking his head, "They're oversold, Marve. Thegive-away is all they want."

  Boswellister turned away and walked towards his motel. They wanted thegive-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 andcrew. He stopped for a moment and gave a swift command into the lapelpickup, then went on to his motel room.

  * * * * *

  The next morning, full of confidence after a good breakfast, he headedfor the intersection of Laurel Canyon and Ventura Boulevards. There hewould 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, forballyhoo of a different character had taken their place for the daytime.

  Boswellister stopped for a moment to watch a demonstrator work before ahuge, block-long, glittering drugstore.

  The demonstrator went into his pitch:

  "--money back. Now watch! Into a wet glass I pour a small amount ofmedically tested Calsobisidine. See how the Calsobisidine clings to thesides of the wet glass."

  The pitchman smiled with flawless teeth and the women smiled back athim. His shoes were waxed and buffed; his hair fell in a black curlacross his high forehead; his gardenia dripped dew like the ones in thebox by his elbow. Each bottle of Calsobisidine came complete with anintimate smile from the pitchman, a fresh gardenia pinned on the breastby his clever fingers and a trial sample bottle. Just for sixninety-five, plus tax.

  "In the exact same manner, Calsobisidine clings to the lining of yourstomach and intestines, giving positive relief from burning pain andacid indigestion."

  This puzzled Boswellister, and he remarked in a voice that seemedoverloud, "But who has glass insides?"

  The women giggled and turned away.

  The pitchman's scowl was a menace; his voice bitter: "Go on, scram. Youqueered my tip."

  Boswellister slipped away while the pitchman started to collect a newcrowd. He popped into the entrance of the drugstore, and as always stoodmomentarily amazed by the bewildering variety of merchandise. Gardeningimplements, paper goods, dishes and glassware, whiskey, Calsobisidine, ahuge display of baby dolls that performed every human function butreproduction....

  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 themiddle of the block-long drugstore, a demonstration of the newesteducational doll was taking place. The doll, stretched out on aminiature hospital delivery table, was being delivered of a replicanew-born infant.

  Again and again the "doctor" performed the delivery, alternatelyinserting the doll-baby into the doll-mamma and removing it.

  Boswellister flushed and walked quickly away. He had no doubt of thetoy's educational value, but nevertheless--he sighed deeply.

  When Boswellister reached the corner of Ventura and Laurel Canyon, hemade his stand on the southeast corner, facing the hills over which theIpplinger starship would come to hover over the intersection and berevealed by him.

  He contacted control and ordered the halo focus for his head. He reachedup and felt the circle, planted firmly over his brow. He smiled tohimself and went into his pitch.

  * * * * *

  "People of Earth," he began in a quavering voice, then he remembered theCalsobisidine 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 andjerked her child complainingly down the street behind her.

  "People of Earth!" Boswellister stated commandingly. He grasped a man'sarm, saying, "Stand still a moment, friend, and hear the promise ofIppling. Glory beyond your imagination can be yours with the ascendancyof Ippling in this world of tears and sorrows."

  The man jerked away. "What the hell, Mac!" He looked searchingly atBoswellister and muttered, "Geez, a nut." He stood back fromBoswellister to listen, smilingly superior, tolerantly waiting to beentertained. A woman dragging a toddler stopped, then several otherpeople stopped to see until Boswellister had about ten people standingaround him.

  "People of Earth!" he started in again, but he was interrupted by acackling voice from the rear.

  "Where else?"

  The small crowd laughed and started to move away, but Boswellister stoodstraight and commanded them. "Listen! Wait for a moment and learn yourglorious destiny.

  "Now," he said quietly into the lapel pickup, and the great doughnutcircle of the Ipplinger starship sailed in close over the hills. A lineof brush fire followed the starship.

  Boswellister held up his hands and pointed. "Behold the glory ofIppling that can be yours!" He held onto the halo, trying to get them tofollow the symbolism. "Look upwards!" He screamed at them, but theywatched the brush fire that swept the hill top. It was a goodie. Itwould wipe out a number of homes.

  He grabbed a boy by the arm and demanded, "Look at the Ipplingerstarship. Behold the glory of Ippling!"

  The ten-year-old sneered. "Yah! That's the new 1993 Lockheed X69-P37experimental ship. I got a model last week."

  "No, no, lad! The Ipplinger starship, come to Earth to bring theblessings of Ippling's culture to this backwards planet. Ippling willsave you from wars and ills, from poverty and hatred. Ippling will beyour destiny. Follow me, Boswellister! Ippling will lead you to thestars! 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 tellyou not to say, shuddup. Say, SHUT UP! S-H-U-T U-P!"

  "Aah!" the boy said in disgust. "Everybody knows starships are bigrockets!" He'd said the final word; he had no more interest inBoswellister, for the fire engines were coming.

  *
* * * *

  They sirened down Ventura and turned up Laurel Canyon, their heavymotors, air horns and sirens drowning out Boswellister's speech. Carshad piled up at the intersection to wait for the fire engines to maketheir swing, and Boswellister leaped to the middle of the intersectionas soon as the trucks had turned.

  He held up his arms and went into his _People of Earth_ spiel again. Butangry, blasting horns cut his voice to nothing. The drivers pressedclose in on him, pinpointing him in the middle of the intersection.Shouts and jeers and horns; the roaring scream of fire engines; peoplerunning and shouting; Ventura at Laurel Canyon was a cacophonousmaelstrom.

  A traffic officer screeched his copcycle to a halt and made his way tothe center of the mass of tangled traffic. He blew his whistle and