The Glory of Ippling | Page 2

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