One Hundred. Ray Bradbury, Philip K. Dick, Isaac Asimov
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 had no doubt of the toy’s educational value, but nevertheless—he sighed deeply.
When Boswellister reached the corner of Ventura and Laurel Canyon, he made his stand on the southeast corner, facing the hills over which the Ipplinger starship would come to hover over the intersection and be revealed by him.
He contacted control and ordered the halo focus for his head. He reached up and felt the circle, planted firmly over his brow. He smiled to himself and went into his pitch.
*
"People of Earth," he began in a quavering voice, then he remembered the Calsobisidine demonstrator, firmed up his tones and started again. "People of Earth! Listen to the message from the stars!"
"Selling horoscopes," a woman answered her child’s question.
"What’s a horrorscope, mamma?"
"A bunch of hooey," she snapped in reply, scowled at Boswellister and jerked her child complainingly down the street behind her.
"People of Earth!" Boswellister stated commandingly. He grasped a man’s arm, saying, "Stand still a moment, friend, and hear the promise of Ippling. Glory beyond your imagination can be yours with the ascendancy of Ippling in this world of tears and sorrows."
The man jerked away. "What the hell, Mac!" He looked searchingly at Boswellister and muttered, "Geez, a nut." He stood back from Boswellister to listen, smilingly superior, tolerantly waiting to be entertained. A woman dragging a toddler stopped, then several other people stopped to see until Boswellister had about ten people standing around him.
"People of Earth!" he started in again, but he was interrupted by a cackling voice from the rear.
"Where else?"
The small crowd laughed and started to move away, but Boswellister stood straight and commanded them. "Listen! Wait for a moment and learn your glorious destiny.
"Now," he said quietly into the lapel pickup, and the great doughnut circle of the Ipplinger starship sailed in close over the hills. A line of brush fire followed the starship.
Boswellister held up his hands and pointed. "Behold the glory of Ippling that can be yours!" He held onto the halo, trying to get them to follow the symbolism. "Look upwards!" He screamed at them, but they watched the brush fire that swept the hill top. It was a goodie. It would wipe out a number of homes.
He grabbed a boy by the arm and demanded, "Look at the Ipplinger starship. Behold the glory of Ippling!"
The ten-year-old sneered. "Yah! That’s the new 1993 Lockheed X69-P37 experimental ship. I got a model last week."
"No, no, lad! 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.
*
They sirened down Ventura and turned up Laurel Canyon, their heavy motors, air horns and sirens drowning out Boswellister’s speech. Cars had piled up at the intersection to wait for the fire engines to make their swing, and Boswellister leaped to the middle of the intersection as soon as the trucks had turned.
He held up his arms and went into his People of Earth spiel again. But angry, blasting horns cut his voice to nothing. The drivers pressed close in on him, pinpointing him in the middle of the intersection. Shouts and jeers and horns; the roaring scream of fire engines; people running and shouting; Ventura at Laurel Canyon was a cacophonous maelstrom.
A traffic officer screeched his copcycle to a halt and made his way to the center of the mass of tangled traffic. He blew his whistle and waved his arms, ordering Boswellister to the sidewalk, but Boswellister refused to move. He had his mission on Earth.
Boswellister shouted over the piled-up noise, waving his hand to the sky, calling to them to follow his lead to the glory of Ippling.
The officer grabbed his coat collar and hustled him to the sidewalk. "You’re under arrest!"
"You can’t arrest me!" Boswellister squirmed and jerked away. He shouted, "Follow me!" and ran north, a good part of the crowd after him. He shrieked an order into the pickup while he ran over the bridge towards Moorpark.
A woman spotted the Ipplinger starship that followed overhead. "Free samples!" she screamed, and those who had lagged behind fell into a run with the crowd following Boswellister.