o 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.

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.

Officers and crewmen quickly lined up to pipe Boswellister aboard. But
the crowd pushed in close, forcing Boswellister to the rear as they
screamed for their free samples. Two bulky crewmen stood embattled by
the entrance port, strong-arming the kids who tried to storm through the
port and inside.

"Space Angel's inside!" 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! Whatcha sellin', Wheatsnaps?"

"Bring on the dames!"

* * * * *

They pressed in close to the starship, running their hands over the
slick metal surface.

"Boy, what a prop! Bet it cost a million bucks. What ya sellin',
mister?"

"Sanity!" Boswellister shouted from the rear.

His men tried to hold their ranks, but the crowd broke the lines,
jerking the medals off their chests for souvenirs.

Boswellister was almost babbling by the time the commander and his men
battled their way to him.

"You saw it all! You know!" Boswellister protested. "That Blond Terror
and his harem darlings, and those violence-avid ruffians in the
audience! Dodie, the stripper, with her lip-licking ogglers! That
Calsobisidine pitchman, oozing allure and implied invitation! My
equation! My precious equation, buried under a mass of pills, lotions,
toys, food, clothes and everything sold with a bump and grind!"

They fought to the ship with him, while the crowd opposed each step,
yelling for entertainment, for TV cameras, for samples of any