y's conflict with the mutinous crew
evident in his voice, "Well, our little vaporized circuit is off again."
He motioned to the image of Boswellister in the forward viewscreen.
It was a sight that tended to increase the tremor in the astrogator's
hands. He replied, "I only hope we can pull the crew through another
pickup. Home and family! Do they think I want mine any less?"
Boswellister marched confidently down the road. He _would_ succeed, for
didn't he have the well oiled machinery of the whole Ipplinger starship
crew of cultural contact specialists to back him up?
* * * * *
While he walked, he practiced the strident-voiced delivery of
extravagant lies he had learned so well and had so magnificently
imitated from the Ventura Boulevard pitch artists. He practiced the
leering insinuendo of the barker outside the gambling hall; he gave it
the Calsobisidine con come-on; he sold it solid, dripping with sex,
twitching with lure.
He knew that here, finally, he would succeed.
Boswellister XIV, Noble Prince of Ippling, smiled his confidence in his
sex-money-superstition equation as he walked briskly down the road to
begin his contact with a world that had substituted vat-culture
procreation for sex; that had abolished money in favor of a complicated
system of verbal, personal-honor swapping credits; that had no religions
or superstitions. A world of people who considered the most sweetly
distilled essence of living to be the minute investigation of the fine
points of logical discourse, engaged in on the basis of an incredibly
multiplied logic structure composed of thirty-seven separate systems of
discursive regulations, the very first of which was based on a planetary
absolute, the rejection and ridicule of all persuasive techniques and
those who used them.
--HELEN M. URBAN
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Glory of Ippling, by Helen M. Urban
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