The Glory of Ippling | Page 3

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