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                      IN THE JAG-WHIFFING SERVICE

                           BY DAVID R. BUNCH

                _The jag-stuff in those black rings was
              wonderful, but why did they have to package
                  it with so many extra accessories?_

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
             Worlds of If Science Fiction, February 1959.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


I had always said there was an easier way. And I think, when we invade,
I'll be proved right. But you know how things get started, and how
powerful tradition can be and how old-line thinking can keep people,
even a whole planet, in a rut.

The big cargo saucers were getting bigger and bigger each year, what
with the growing popularity of the jag-whiff places, and the jag-whiff
places themselves were growing in number with more and more people
going "on the jag" because--well, partly because--of troubles in the
sky, like strange balls whirling around and unexplainable objects
going _beep_ and _wuff_ and _wuff wuff_. We of the saucers had slipped
past these first baby objects O.K. and knew they were just little
old harmless ping-pongs that chattered a little now and then like
a greeting going past. But tell the people that! They'd throw a big
glass on one of the whirlers and see spikes sticking out and maybe
a big pair of eyes inside and a nose and a long red tongue hanging
down. "The Earthits!" they'd scream like they'd just fallen into
one of the hot canals, and they'd race off to a jag-whiff jag like
Judgment-Day-of-Sins itself was after them. And the funny part of it
is, I guess the people were right being scared like that, the way
things turned out.

But is it any wonder we were having to increase the size of the saucers
to space-haul all that jag-whiff up through the rattleballs? And a big
reason makes me think it could have been done more efficiently, we were
having to take so much junk stuff, extra accessories I guess you'd
call it, to get the jag-whiff. Our Earthit contacts were always giving
us the old breeze about cost of labor, cost of materials, improvement
in design and next year's inventories. Apparently the dealers didn't
understand at all what the play was with us because they'd give us
so much blab-blab that didn't apply, all about futuristic design and
about how one jag-whiffer machine had it all over another jag-whiffer
machine, which to us didn't mean a thing. And we didn't talk, because
we'd heard already how some Earthits feared the saucers, and how some
Earthits said they didn't exist at all, and how some other Earthits
were on the fence, saying maybe they did maybe they didn't so what? and
how there was wide fear and great unrest among the Earthits in general.
And when it's like that, and you're a possible source of the wide fear
and unrest, a whole planet full of people can easily decide they don't
want any part of contributing to your pleasure.

And that's what the jag-whiff was to us actually, pleasure. Back home
when our troubles had us down, or maybe we just felt like raising
a little dust, we'd go to a jag-whiff place. We'd plunk down our
pay-pictures, and the whiff-tender would wheel out one of those black
rings, which they have to keep under special pressures in our climate.
Then he'd screw on the tube with the face piece and we'd take our
whiff and something out of the black ring--just seemed like real thick
chest filler to me--would spread all through to the farthest reaches
of our breath bags and go into our blood and suddenly all five of our
eye sticks would start whirling and focusing and zeroing-in for dames
and our arms and legs would start a kick and a slap dance, enough to
shake the planet down. And when our face spines and head tubes would go
into that special sharp buzz of contentment, we'd know we were on our
jag, full and warm and happy with as much pleasure as any Martian is
ever supposed to know. But we never revealed the play to our Earthit
contacts, just slipped in at night in our noiseless saucers with all
lights dimmed, cleared our cargo tubes of the tons of pay-picture we'd
brought (green copy of the Earthits' currency) and took on as many of
the gleaming jag-whiffer machines as our cargo tubes would hold.

       *       *       *       *       *

But it is ten years now since a jag-whiffer captain has steered his
saucer through the whirling balls. It got so the satellites would drum
on the saucer from a long way out. Deafening! Dreadful! We saw what
was coming and we tried to beat it. We saucered around the clock for a
while trying to stockpile enough jag-whiff to last us. But of course
we couldn't. We are about out of it now, and our land is strewn with
the glittery shells that were once attached to the black tubes of the
jag-whiff.

And it could all have been done so different. I'm sure it could. That
stuff wasn't just in the tubes of the jag-whiffer machines down there,
I'm convinced of that. That stuff may have been all around us down
there. I believe it was. But our government would insist we get into
these suits, about so far out, you see, about the time we'd start
contacting the rattle balls. And they threatened us with removal of the
contacts if we broke the rules about the suits. In addition to that,
they said we'd die anyway. So you see how life can be--grim and fuzzy
and unsafe most of the time. And to make things even more uncertain,
just because they couldn't duplicate the product we were hauling, our
scientists got uppity and ignored the whole problem. Except to run off
to the jag-whiff places of course to ease their frustrations, which
they did plenty often when they thought they wouldn't be seen.

But when we invade down through there, which we plan to do soon now,
with our special equipment to catch and explode the whirlyballs, I
think we're going to find out plenty. Among other things, I think we're
going to find out that the stuff we cargoed up here at such great cost,
that was so inefficiently packaged, is all around us down there. I
think when we take over down there, with the right filtering equipment,
jag-whiffing may become as common and economical as breathing. And
another thing, I think we're going to find out we were taken for quite
a ride by the Earthits with their silly way of packaging jag-whiff.
Imagine having to buy all that chrome and steel, guaranteed to go over
one hundred miles per hour, just to get four little black rings of
whiff. And for all the Earthits talked about it, the rings with the
white sidewalls didn't whiff one bit better than the others!





End of Project Gutenberg's In the Jag-Whiffing Service, by David R. Bunch