The Glory of Ippling | Page 3

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