The Glory of Ippling | Page 5

she screamed, and those who had lagged behind fell into a
run with the crowd following Boswellister.
The northwest corner of Laurel Canyon and Moorpark had been cleared
of houses for the erection of a new billion-dollar shopping center, and
the ground was smooth and bare. Here, in the center of the five-acre
construction site, the Ipplinger starship settled to Earth.
The Ipplinger Supreme Starship Commander was panic-stricken. He
had to rescue Boswellister from that sample-seeking mob. If
Boswellister should be trampled and injured! Each screamed demand,
picked up by Boswellister's lapel microphone, sent the Supreme
Commander's blood pressure up another notch, and the moment the
ramp was unshipped he hit the ground.
Officers and crewmen quickly lined up to pipe Boswellister aboard.

But the crowd pushed in close, forcing Boswellister to the rear as they
screamed for their free samples. Two bulky crewmen stood embattled
by the entrance port, strong-arming the kids who tried to storm through
the port and inside.
"Space Angel's inside!" That was their battle cry as they tried to
wriggle under the legs of the crewmen.
"Ya sellin' Oatbombs?" one screamed in the commander's ear, then
reached up to snatch off a shoulder patch.
Boswellister stood in the rear of the crowd and wrung his hands while
the 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 the slick
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
men battled their way to him.
"You saw it all! You know!" Boswellister protested. "That Blond
Terror and his harem darlings, and those violence-avid ruffians in the
audience! Dodie, the stripper, with her lip-licking ogglers! That
Calsobisidine pitchman, oozing allure and implied invitation! My

equation! 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
sold them with sex, right from the beginning."
"What do you do, handsome? Sing?" A bundle-clutching housewife
breathed into his face, stepping on the commander's foot as she shoved
in close to Boswellister.
"Take me home!" Boswellister beseeched the commander.
The officers and crew, tattered, demedaled, bruised and completely
defeated in morale, formed a flying wedge and drove for the safety of
the ship.
The ramp retracted. The port closed, then opened briefly to eject a
nosey boy, closing finally on the demands and the mocking laughter
and the clangor of arriving police cars.
"Raise ship!" the commander ordered. He sopped at the blood from his
gashed arm and said to his first officer, "Somebody in that mob used a
knife to go after those service stripes."
The first shuddered. "Ugly brutes."
Boswellister leaned against the corridor bulkhead and sighed as the
Ipplinger starship rose from the ground. How could he explain to his
poppa? All his brothers had won their worlds. He would do it. He
squared his shoulders. After all, he was a Boswellister. Boswellister
XIV, no less. A son of Gaphroldshan IX himself, the Prince of Ippling
World LXIV, a Royal Prince of the Central Ippling.
He walked resolutely to the control room, riding the crest of his
refurbished dignity.

"Put me down on that planet we spotted last year," he ordered. "What
was that star map number?"
"G.S.R. 285139-F. R. A. 592-105-R.U. 13," his alert assistant
astronomical officer answered, reading the number from a prepared
memorandum.
Boswellister hesitated. Should he reprimand the officer for anticipating
his failure or compliment him for his efficiency? Boswellister backed
water and went to his room to learn the language he'd need, while the
officers pulled their own demoralized spirits together so they could go
to work on the crew when the news broke that they weren't going
home.
* * * * *
They made a quick passage to their destination, and Boswellister--well
rested, well fed, hypnotically tutored, supplied with communicators, a
synthesizer for his food and a portable equation writer strapped to his
back, and his irrepressible, dauntless belief in himself in triumphant
operation--stepped from the ramp onto this newest world of his
Princely destiny.
"Circle in orbit," he ordered. "I'll call you when I need you."
Boswellister walked confidently down the road to town. He
congratulated himself on