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Updated: July 8, 2025
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!
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.
On the Ipplinger starship a communications tech slapped home a switch and the solido-vision circle settled over the Blond Terror's head, a halo of solid 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 cultural connotations.
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.
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.
"Free samples!" 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.
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.
"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.
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.
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!
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