The Glory of Ippling   By: Helen M. Urban

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, the bigger mess it can make. Like the time the planetary computer for Buughabyta flipped its complete grain futures series. The computer ordered only 15 acres, and Buughabytians had to live for a full year off the government's stored surplus thus pounding down the surplus, forcing up the price, eliminating the subsidy and balancing the Buughabytian budget for fifteen years an unprecedented bit of nonsense that almost had permanent effects. But a career economist with an eye for flubup and complication managed to restore balanced disorder, bringing Buughabyta right back to normalcy.

Or like the time a matter duplicator receiver misread OCH{3}CH{3}OH, to turn out a magnificently busted blonde sphygmomano raiser with an HOCH{3}OH replacement, putting a strain on the loyalty of a billion teen age girls dedicated to Doyle Oglevie worship. Doyle she insisted she was Doyle he, as it took quite a while for her hormones to overcome the memory of his easy, eyelash flapping, tone torturing microphone conquests. Put a strain on his wardrobe, too.

No machine, of course, can compare for complexity with any group of humans who have been collected into machine like precision of operation. Take one time when an Ipplinger Cultural Contact Group was handed a Boswellister with V.I.P. connections and orders to put him to an assignment for his maturity.

Boswellister sat patiently. He squirmed emotionally up and down his backbone, but he affected a disdainful appearance of patience in view of the importance of his and his poppa's positions compared with the pawn like minusculity of the audience's.

The Blond Terror strode majestically down the aisle of the open air sports arena, preceded by twenty four harem darling dancing girls. The orchestra wailed an oriental sinuosity of woodwinds and drums, accompanying the hip twitching, nearly naked, sloe (by benefit of make up) eyed, black haired beauties.

Fifteen heavyweights, draped in leopard skins, had preceded the dancers to set up the Blond Terror's tub on a polar bear rug in the center of the ring. A dozen luscious watercarriers had emptied their jars into the tub. Soap and towels, oils and perfumes, mirror and comb, were arranged on 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 his muscles, waiting for his handmaidens to remove the five layers of elaborately decorated robes that were draped over his super manly body.

Boswellister cringed slightly (inwardly), speculating that the Blond Terror really was a muscled man. All that man nearly seven feet tall, bronzed, developed, imperious, condescending to notice just slightly the adulations of the women in the packed arena.

The Blond Terror stepped into the tub, carrying out his advertised boast of being the cleanest wrestler in the ring, a boast he was unable to prove with ring action through the exigencies of type casting, for the Blond Terror was the villain.

The Blond Terror muscled down into the tub. He was scrubbed, then rinsed. He stood out onto the white fur rug and sneeringly allowed his handmaidens to pat him dry and powder him down. They held up the large hand mirror and allowed him to view his handsomeness while his short cropped, blond curls were carefully combed.