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.

"Now." Boswellister spoke the order into the lapel receiver. On the
Ipplinger starship a communications tech slapped home a switch and the
solido-vision circle settled over the Blond Terror's head, a halo of
solid light for a complex Ipplinger signal-reaction device.

"Hail Ippling!" Boswellis