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Updated: November 15, 2025
Name's Alan Donnell, and this is Roger Bond. Yours?" "I'm Kevin Quantrell." He was short and stocky, heavily tanned, with a square jaw and a confident look about him. "I'm out of the starship Encounter, just back from the Aldebaran system. Been in the Enclave two weeks now with a lot more ahead of me." Alan whistled. "Aldebaran! That's let's see, 109 years round trip.
The Ipplinger starship, come to Earth to bring the blessings of Ippling's culture to this backwards planet. Ippling will save you from wars and ills, from poverty and hatred. Ippling will be your destiny. Follow me, Boswellister! Ippling will lead you to the stars! Glory for all!" Boswellister patted the boy on the head. "Keep your hands off me, you big stiff!"
Boswellister gulped and pointed upwards. "See the Ipplinger starship!" "Aah! Shuddup!" His mother jerked his arm in reproof. "How many times I've gotta tell you not to say, shuddup. Say, SHUT UP! S-H-U-T U-P!" "Aah!" the boy said in disgust. "Everybody knows starships are big rockets!" He'd said the final word; he had no more interest in Boswellister, for the fire engines were coming.
Here and there in the crowd, standing out because of their height and the silvery metallic cloaks they wore, were the strange tall figures of the Lhari. "Well, how about going down?" Tommy glanced impatiently at his timepiece. "Less than half an hour before the starship touches down." "All right. We can get a sidewalk over here."
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.
The starship, now a mere spaceship, was on course at one gravity. The lifecraft were in their slots, but the five and the four still lived in them rather than in the vast and oppressive emptiness that the ship itself now was. And socially, outside of working hours, the two groups did not mix. Clean-up was going nicely, at the union rate of six hours on and eighteen hours off.
And the first thing he'd seen on Earth, when he got off the starship, was the Lhari spaceport. And he'd thought, right then, It doesn't belong on Earth. He'd said so to his father, and his father's face had gone strange, bitter and remote. "A lot of people would agree with you, Son," Captain Rupert Steele had said softly.
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.
It was a tiny picture, a silvery sliver of light, but it too was unmistakeable. It could be nothing else but a Starship. Later, as they talked, they saw that the map had told each of them, individually, the same thing. "They had a star-drive," Tom said.
They ate in silence. Alan was halfway through his bowl of protein mix when Art Kandin dropped down onto his bench facing him. The Valhalla's First Officer was a big pudgy-faced man who had the difficult job of translating the concise, sometimes almost cryptic commands of Alan's father into the actions that kept the great starship going. "Good rising, Alan. And happy birthday." "Thanks, Art.
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