The Glory of Ippling

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  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 run
way. 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