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fantastic JUNE 1959 Volume 8 Number 6

BLURBLE

By M. G. ZIMMERMAN

Great oaks from little acorns grew. But who knows what is likely to sprout from an alien seed merchandised by a hot-shot adman?

JOE WEIDERMEYER'S car shot past the billboard.

"Blurble?"

"Now what the hell is Blurble?" wondered Joe as he eased up on the accelerator. Advertising interested him; he was a vice-president, one of twenty-four in the firm of MILKBERRY, MOTZART, & MILTONE. His position was precarious, as are all vice-presidents in advertising firms, and in the past thirteen weeks, Joe, having been elevated to this new and high position, lived, loved, and liked anything, everything, or anyone who was distantly related to advertising in any form, shape, or manner, whatsoever.

So Joe signalled a u-turn and headed back the way he had just come. Executing another u-tum brought him face to face with the almost empty billboard.

Blurble, it radiated in multicolored, knee-high letters. Nothing else, just—Blurble.

"I knew it," sighed Joe, fatalistically.

He was thinking of Hank Singer, also a vice-president and the most dangerous rival for not only the chief executive spot but for Molly as well, a thorn on both counts.

"Score one for Hanky boy," he said to himself. This gimmick was a honey. How Hank had clevered it out was beyond Joe's comprehensible powers. It was a lulu; Joe had to admit that, but not without painful twinges of jealousy assailing the most vulnerable part of his make-up, his ego.

Visions of Hank jubilantly being called into the Big Man's Domain, patted on the back, and becoming V. P. number I filled Joe's mind.

"Ugh," he shuddered, reverting to primeval speech. He studied the billboard once more, going over it with a practiced eye, searching for defects, any defects. There were none.

"Maybe I've been spending too much time with Molly," decided Joe. "But now is the time for action."

With wheels of determination clicking around inside his brain, Joe started the car and drove at a mad pace toward the office. He was thinking up a gimmick to surprass this coup d'êtat that Hank had so skillfully weaved. But his brain wasn't functioning properly and his mind was pathetically blank when he reached the office door.

"Well," he reasoned philosophically, "I'll just have to brazen it out." He shrugged, donned his most smug look of supercilious contempt, usually reserved for special occasions and subordinates, and shouldered his way inside.


"Good morning all."

Joe bowed low, hiding his face from all present. On his way down he noticed the glum look spread across Hank's countenance. Joe stopped before his sacroilliac locked on him, last resort to emerge from a ticklish situation without losing face.

He straightened up again with some difficulty. Joe tucked away a mental note to partake of more outdoor exercises.

He loosed his most dazzling smile in the direction of his arch-rival, and with a cheery flick of his well-groomed above-shoulders, shot him a happy hello and my aren't you down to the slave-shop early?

Joe wasn't positive, but the reply that faintly reached his ears resembled a term he had never heard from human lips other than his own.

"Did you say—Blurble?" asked Joe.

Hank stood up. The grin on his face was certainly a sick one. He nodded unhappily.

"That's what I said. Blurble."

Hank sat down again. Joe wondered how he had stood up in the firs...

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