E-text prepared by Greg Weeks, Geetu Melwani, Bruce Albrecht,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
()
Transcriber's note.
This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction,February, 1960. Extensive research did not uncover anyevidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
SUMMIT
By MACK REYNOLDS
Illustrated by Freas
Almost anything, if it goes on long enough, can be reduced to, first aRoutine, and then, to a Tradition. And at the point it is, obviously,Necessary.
Two king-sized bands blared martial music, the "Internationale" andthe "Star-Spangled Banner," each seemingly trying to drown the other ina Götterdämmerung of acoustics.
Two lines of troops, surfacely differing in uniforms and in weapons, butbasically so very the same, so evenly matched, came to attention. Athousand hands slapped a thousand submachine gun stocks.
Marshal Vladimir Ignatov strode stiff-kneed down the long march, thestride of a man for years used to cavalry boots. He was flanked byfrozen visaged subordinates, but none so cold of face as he himself.
At the entrance to the conference hall he stopped, turned and waited.
At the end of the corridor of troops a car stopped and several figuresemerged, most of them in civilian dress, several bearing brief cases.They in their turn ran the gantlet.
At their fore walked James Warren Donlevy, spritely, his eyes dartinghere, there, politician-like. A half smile on his face, as though afraidhe might forget to greet a voter he knew, or was supposed to know.
His hand was out before that of Vladimir Ignatov's.
"Your Excellency," he said.
Ignatov shook hands stiffly. Dropped that of the other's as soon asprotocol would permit.
The field marshal indicated the door of the conference hall. "There islittle reason to waste time, Mr. President."
"Exactly," Donlevy snapped.
The door closed behind them and the two men, one uniformed andbemedaled, the other nattily attired in his business suit, turned toeach other.
"Nice to see you again, Vovo. How're Olga and the baby?"
The soldier grinned back in response. "Two babies now—you don't keep upon the real news, Jim. How's Martha?" They shook hands.
"Not so good," Jim said, scowling. "I'm worried. It's that new cancer.As soon as we conquer one type two more rear up. How are you peopledoing on cancer research?"
Vovo was stripping off his tunic. He hung it over the back of one of thechairs, began to unbutton his high, tight military collar. "I'm notreally up on it, Jim, but I think that's one field where you can trustanything we know to be in the regular scientific journals our peopleexchange with yours. I'll make some inquiries when I get back home,though. You never know, this new strain—I guess you'd call it—might beone that we're up on and you aren't."
"Yeah," Jim said. "Thanks a lot." He crossed to the small portable bar."How about a drink? Whisky, vodka, rum—there's ice."
Vovo slumped into one of the heavy chairs that were arranged around thetable. He grimaced, "No vodka, I don't feel patriotic today. How aboutone of those long cold drinks, with the cola stuff?"
"Cuba libra," Jim said. "Coming up. Look, would you rather speakRussian?"
"No," Vovo said, "my English is getting rusty. I need the practice."
Jim brought the glasses over and put them on the ta