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, thebigger mess it can make. Like the time the planetary computer forBuughabyta flipped its complete grain-futures series. The computerordered only 15 acres, and Buughabytians had to live for a full year offthe government's stored surplus--thus pounding down the surplus, forcingup the price, eliminating the subsidy and balancing the Buughabytianbudget for fifteen years--an unprecedented bit of nonsense that almosthad permanent effects. But a career economist with an eye for flubup andcomplication managed to restore balanced disorder, bringing Buughabytaright back to normalcy. 

Or like the time a matter-duplicator receiver misread OCH{3}CH{3}OH, toturn out a magnificently busted blonde sphygmomano-raiser with anHOCH{3}OH replacement, putting a strain on the loyalty of a billionteen-age girls dedicated to Doyle Oglevie worship. Doyle-she insistedshe was Doyle-he, as it took quite a while for her hormones to overcomethe memory of his easy, eyelash-flapping, tone-torturing microphoneconquests. Put a strain on his wardrobe, too. 

No machine, of course, can compare for complexity with any group ofhumans who have been collected into machine-like precision ofoperation. Take one time when an Ipplinger Cultural Contact Group washanded a Boswellister with V. I. P. Connections and orders to put him toan assignment--for his maturity. 

 * * * * *

Boswellister sat patiently. He squirmed emotionally up and down hisbackbone, but he affected a disdainful appearance of patience in view ofthe importance of his and his poppa's positions compared with thepawn-like minusculity of the audience's. 

The Blond Terror strode majestically down the aisle of the open airsports arena, preceded by twenty-four harem-darling dancing girls. Theorchestra wailed an oriental sinuosity of woodwinds and drums, accompanying the hip-twitching, nearly naked, sloe- (by benefit ofmake-up) eyed, black-haired beauties. 

Fifteen heavyweights, draped in leopard skins, had preceded the dancersto set up the Blond Terror's tub on a polar bear rug in the center ofthe ring. A dozen luscious watercarriers had emptied their jars into thetub. Soap and towels, oils and perfumes, mirror and comb, were arrangedon 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 hismuscles, waiting for his handmaidens to remove the five layers ofelaborately decorated robes that were draped over his super-manly body. 

Boswellister cringed slightly (inwardly), speculating that the BlondTerror really was a muscled man. All that man--nearly seven feet tall, bronzed, developed, imperious, condescending to notice just slightly theadulations of the women in the packed arena. 

The Blond Terror stepped into the tub, carrying out his advertised boastof being the cleanest wrestler in the ring, a boast he was unable toprove with ring action through the exigencies of type-casting, for theBlond Terror was the villain. 

The Blond Terror muscled down into the tub. He was scrubbed, thenrinsed. He stood out onto the white fur rug and sneeringly allowed hishandmaidens to pat him dry and powder him down. They held up the largehand mirror and allowed him to view his handsomeness while hisshort-cropped, blond curls were carefully combed. 

"Now. " Boswellister spoke the order into the lapel receiver. On theIpplinger starship a communications tech slapped home a switch and thesolido-vision circle settled over the Blond Terror's head, a halo ofsolid 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 culturalconnotations. It was bound to capture the audience, put them in theright mood of awe-struck superstitious reverence, make the revelation ofthe great circle of the Ipplinger starship overhead a thing ofwonderment and devotion-focus. 

The Blond Terror should now look upwards, guide the eyes of theaudience, 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 slylyat the audience. 

The crowd roared its applause for the trick lighting effect. You coulddepend 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 ofthe new Million Dollar Ventura Boulevard Open Air Sports Arena, theBlond Terror had done it again. 

Boswellister shouted. He pointed. He stared upwards, trying to draw thecrowd with his vehemence. But he couldn't capture one gaze, no matterwhat 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, illuminatedwith soft etherealness to give the proper effect to thesesuperstition-ridden people. All they had to do was glance up and accordto Ippling the superiority that was Ippling's, and they would be broughtgently, delicately into galactic contact, opening out their narrow waysinto the broad ways of the galactic universal worlds. With Boswellisterto lead them. 

But he couldn't make the play. Not a head would tilt up. The TV camerasthat should be scanning the great lighted circle of the Ipplingerstarship had swung to the entrance, waiting for the Hatchet Man. 

And here he came, down the aisle like a bolt of Chinese lightning. Hevaulted the ropes, leaped to the tub, overturned it and was gone back upthe aisle before the Blond Terror could retaliate. Bath water sopped thepiles of robes and made a mess out of the bearskin rug; but the ringattendants carted everything off, removed the waterproof canvas from thering 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 fewmoments he'd stop to gaze admiringly into the mirror, running his handalong the edge of the solid band of light, grabbing all the credit forIpplinger electronic science. He turned on cue to give the TV audience afull-face closeup. 

Boswellister cursed himself for choosing the Blond Terror. That cynical, egocentric muscle artist was too pleased with himself to have any roomin his thoughts for proper superstitious awe, and too stupid torecognize the superior science in back of the halo device. 

"Remove the device, " Boswellister ordered. There was no point inallowing it to stay, and that band of solid light, immovably in place onthe wrestler's head, made a perfect battering ram for head-buttingmayhem. 

Boswellister paid no attention to the gladiators-at-mat; he left hisseat as soon as the device was removed and walked out onto VenturaBoulevard. He went over his cultural equation, trying to find the flaw. 

In the year he had spent on the preliminary survey, he had assessed thiscultural equation to the last decimal point of surety. He had absolutefaith in these people's superstitions. He knew what to expect; butsomewhere the equation had been off. He should have chosen a quieterevent, he guessed. The audience had been too well schooled in theacceptance of the spectacular. 

What was needed was a more acute contrast, and suddenly he had it: theburlesque runway. He had watched it many times ... And there was onegirl, a big-bodied blonde with mild eyes. 

He checked his watch and hurried his pace. It was about time for Dodie'sturn on the runway that extended out from the front of the gamblinghouse. 

With satisfaction, Boswellister called up the memory of Dodie's peelact. This would be a natural, and he couldn't think why he hadn'tdecided on it right away. 

 * * * * *

In many ways Dodie was a big girl. In clothes she could never be thefashion ideal, but she certainly made a good thing out of nakedness. Hersoft, heavy, white breasts made old men blanch and young men start tograb. She was tall, with a narrow waist, flaring hips, long curvy legsand arms; with those big, innocent blue eyes, wearing high heels and anounce of flimsy, up there on the burlesque runway ... Mmm ... Boswellister groaned. 

She wouldn't date Boswellister a second time no matter what hepromised, and his promises had included many things she'd never 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 wavedhis arms, ordering Boswellister to the sidewalk, but Boswellisterrefused to move. He had his mission on Earth. 

Boswellister shouted over the piled-up noise, waving his hand to thesky, 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. Heshouted, "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 bridgetowards Moorpark. 

A woman spotted the Ipplinger starship that followed overhead. "Freesamples!" she screamed, and those who had lagged behind fell into a runwith the crowd following Boswellister. 

The northwest corner of Laurel Canyon and Moorpark had been cleared ofhouses for the erection of a new billion-dollar shopping center, and theground was smooth and bare. Here, in the center of the five-acreconstruction site, the Ipplinger starship settled to Earth. 

The Ipplinger Supreme Starship Commander was panic-stricken. He had torescue Boswellister from that sample-seeking mob. If Boswellister shouldbe trampled and injured! Each screamed demand, picked up byBoswellister's lapel microphone, sent the Supreme Commander's bloodpressure up another notch, and the moment the ramp was unshipped he hitthe ground. 

Officers and crewmen quickly lined up to pipe Boswellister aboard. Butthe crowd pushed in close, forcing Boswellister to the rear as theyscreamed for their free samples. Two bulky crewmen stood embattled bythe entrance port, strong-arming the kids who tried to storm through theport and inside. 

"Space Angel's inside!" That was their battle cry as they tried towriggle under the legs of the crewmen. 

"Ya sellin' Oatbombs?" one screamed in the commander's ear, then reachedup to snatch off a shoulder patch. 

Boswellister stood in the rear of the crowd and wrung his hands whilethe 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 theslick 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 menbattled their way to him. 

"You saw it all! You know!" Boswellister protested. "That Blond Terrorand his harem darlings, and those violence-avid ruffians in theaudience! Dodie, the stripper, with her lip-licking ogglers! ThatCalsobisidine pitchman, oozing allure and implied invitation! Myequation! 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 soldthem with sex, right from the beginning. "

"What do you do, handsome? Sing?" A bundle-clutching housewife breathedinto his face, stepping on the commander's foot as she shoved in closeto Boswellister. 

"Take me home!" Boswellister beseeched the commander. 

The officers and crew, tattered, demedaled, bruised and completelydefeated in morale, formed a flying wedge and drove for the safety ofthe ship. 

The ramp retracted. The port closed, then opened briefly to eject anosey boy, closing finally on the demands and the mocking laughter andthe clangor of arriving police cars. 

"Raise ship!" the commander ordered. He sopped at the blood from hisgashed arm and said to his first officer, "Somebody in that mob used aknife to go after those service stripes. "

The first shuddered. "Ugly brutes. "

Boswellister leaned against the corridor bulkhead and sighed as theIpplinger starship rose from the ground. How could he explain to hispoppa? All his brothers had won their worlds. He _would_ do it. Hesquared his shoulders. After all, he was a Boswellister. BoswellisterXIV, no less. A son of Gaphroldshan IX himself, the Prince of IpplingWorld LXIV, a Royal Prince of the Central Ippling. 

He walked resolutely to the control room, riding the crest of hisrefurbished dignity. 

"Put me down on that planet we spotted last year, " he ordered. "What wasthat star map number?"

"G. S. R. 285139-F. R. A. 592-105-R. U. 13, " his alert assistantastronomical officer answered, reading the number from a preparedmemorandum. 

Boswellister hesitated. Should he reprimand the officer for anticipatinghis failure or compliment him for his efficiency? Boswellister backedwater and went to his room to learn the language he'd need, while theofficers pulled their own demoralized spirits together so they could goto work on the crew when the news broke that they weren't going home. 

 * * * * *

They made a quick passage to their destination, and Boswellister--wellrested, well fed, hypnotically tutored, supplied with communicators, asynthesizer for his food and a portable equation writer strapped to hisback, and his irrepressible, dauntless belief in himself in triumphantoperation--stepped from the ramp onto this newest world of his Princelydestiny. 

"Circle in orbit, " he ordered. "I'll call you when I need you. "

Boswellister walked confidently down the road to town. He congratulatedhimself on having learned, also on his wise humility in admitting thefact of his having learned. He smiled now at the naiveté with which hehad approached his first try at establishing a realm for his IpplingerPrincedom rights. 

He had been so full of illusions that he had landed openly, had steppedright up and announced that he had come to establish his household andrear his own Princes, who would, in their maturity, leave to win theirown worlds. In addition to their being small-minded on that first worldabout his needing five wives for his household, they had nearly managedto commit him to a lunatic asylum, for he had overlooked, in hisequation, the fact that his first planet, with its two suns andperpetual daylight, had never known about the stars. There had been noway to break through their wall of stupidity, and he had left, theplanet's sanity-police close on his heels. Had he used money it wouldhave 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 theresuperstition meant more than money, though money had seemed on thesurface to be the answer to everything. On that second planet he hadmade the error of buying his way into the half-political, half-religioustemple setup, and had tried to bring the local superstitions into linewith Ipplinger Reality Philosophy. They had lost an officer and threemen when they rescued him from the temple's torture chamber; and nonetoo soon, for he had been taking quite a stretching when his rescue hadarrived. 

Applied on Earth, the superstition equation had not paid off. He hadfailed to notice that they didn't really believe in their religions andsuperstitions, though they showed every indication of being extremelydevout 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 thisfresh start, he would show how well he had learned. In the idiom ofVentura Boulevard, he'd hit 'em with the whole deck, deuces wild. He'dgive 'em sex and money and superstition and to hell with fact and logic. 

These primitive worlds had to be brought slowly into a respect forlogic; for Ipplinger logic, the only valid system of logic in the wholeuniverse. 

In the hovering ship, the commander turned to the astrogator and said, with the bitterness of yesterday's conflict with the mutinous crewevident 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'shands. He replied, "I only hope we can pull the crew through anotherpickup. Home and family! Do they think I want mine any less?"

Boswellister marched confidently down the road. He _would_ succeed, fordidn't he have the well oiled machinery of the whole Ipplinger starshipcrew of cultural contact specialists to back him up?

 * * * * *

While he walked, he practiced the strident-voiced delivery ofextravagant lies he had learned so well and had so magnificentlyimitated from the Ventura Boulevard pitch artists. He practiced theleering insinuendo of the barker outside the gambling hall; he gave itthe 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 hissex-money-superstition equation as he walked briskly down the road tobegin his contact with a world that had substituted vat-cultureprocreation for sex; that had abolished money in favor of a complicatedsystem of verbal, personal-honor swapping credits; that had no religionsor superstitions. A world of people who considered the most sweetlydistilled essence of living to be the minute investigation of the finepoints of logical discourse, engaged in on the basis of an incrediblymultiplied logic structure composed of thirty-seven separate systems ofdiscursive regulations, the very first of which was based on a planetaryabsolute, the rejection and ridicule of all persuasive techniques andthose who used them. 

 --HELEN M. URBAN