uick, bloody death. And every few
moments he'd stop to gaze admiringly into the mirror, running his hand
along the edge of the solid band of light, grabbing all the credit for
Ipplinger electronic science. He turned on cue to give the TV audience a
full-face closeup.

Boswellister cursed himself for choosing the Blond Terror. That cynical,
egocentric muscle artist was too pleased with himself to have any room
in his thoughts for proper superstitious awe, and too stupid to
recognize the superior science in back of the halo device.

"Remove the device," Boswellister ordered. There was no point in
allowing it to stay, and that band of solid light, immovably in place on
the wrestler's head, made a perfect battering ram for head-butting
mayhem.

Boswellister paid no attention to the gladiators-at-mat; he left his
seat as soon as the device was removed and walked out onto Ventura
Boulevard. He went over his cultural equation, trying to find the flaw.

In the year he had spent on the preliminary survey, he had assessed this
cultural equation to the last decimal point of surety. He had absolute
faith in these people's superstitions. He knew what to expect; but
somewhere the equation had been off. He should have chosen a quieter
event, he guessed. The audience had been too well schooled in the
acceptance of the spectacular.

What was needed was a more acute contrast, and suddenly he had it: the
burlesque runway. He had watched it many times ... and there was one
girl, a big-bodied blonde with mild eyes.

He checked his watch and hurried his pace. It was about time for Dodie's
turn on the runway that extended out from the front of the gambling
house.

With satisfaction, Boswellister called up the memory of Dodie's peel
act. This would be a natural, and he couldn't think why he hadn't
decided on it right away.

* * * * *

In many ways Dodie was a big girl. In clothes she could never be the
fashion ideal, but she certainly made a good thing out of nakedness. Her
soft, heavy, white breasts made old men blanch and young men start to
grab. She was tall, with a narrow waist, flaring hips, long curvy legs
and arms; with those big, innocent blue eyes, wearing high heels and an
ounce of flimsy, up there on the burlesque runway ... mmm ...
Boswellister groaned.

She wouldn't date Boswellister a second time no matter what he
promised, and his promises had included many things she'd never before
h