John Smith sat stiffly waiting. Diplomacy was dead, and he had made a mistake in trying to be polite. Diplomats were dead, and the art forgotten. Poker-game protocol had to apply here, and it was really the only sensible way: for two opponents to try to cheat each other honestly and jovially. He was glad the Soviet Worker’s Vicar had not responded to his first politeness.
“Anything else, Smith?”
“We can discuss agenda later. What about the continued conferences?”
“Suits me. I have nothing to lose. I am in a position to destroy you anyway, a position I have occupied for several years. I have not cared to do so, since you made no overt moves against us.”
A brief silence. Bluff? Smith wondered. Certainly bluff. On the other hand, it would be interesting to see how far Ivan would brag.
“I gather your atomic research has made rapid strides, for you to make such a boast,” Smith ventured.
“Not at all. In fact, my predecessor had it curtailed and limited to industrial applications. Our weapons program has become unidirectional, and extremely inexpensive. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”
Smith’s flesh crawled. Something was wrong here. The Asian leader was too much at his ease. His words meant nothing, of course. It had to be lying noise; it could be nothing else. A meeting such as this was not meant to communicate truth, but to discern an opponent’s attitude and to try to hide one’s own.
“Let it suffice to say,” the Red leader went on, “that we know more about you than you know about us. Our system has changed. A century ago, our continent suffered a blight of dogmatism and senseless butchery such as the world had never seen. Obviously, such conditions cannot endure. They did not. There was strong reaction and revolution within the framework of the old system. We have achieved a workable technological aristocratism, based on an empirical approach to problems. We realize that the final power is in the hands of the people—and I use that archaic word in preference to your ‘rabble’—”
“Are you trying to convert me to something?” John Smith growled acidly.
“Not at all. I’m telling you our position.” He paused for a moment, then inserted his fingertips under the edge of the mask. “Here is probably the best way to tell you.”
The Red leader ripped off the mask, revealing an impassive Oriental face with deepset black eyes and a glowering frown. The President sucked in his breath. It was unthinkable, that a man should expose himself to … but then, that was what he was trying to prove wasn’t it?
He kicked a foot-switch to kill the microphone circuit, and spoke quickly to the Stand-ins, knowing that the Asian could not see his lips move behind the golden mask.
“Is Security Section guarding against spy circuits?”
“Yes, John.”
“Then quick, get out of the room, all of you! Join the Secondaries.”
“But John, it’ll leave you fingered! If nine of us leave, they’ll know that the remaining one is—”
“Get on your masks and get out! I’m going to take mine off.”
“But John—!”
“Move, Subversive!”
“You don’t need to curse,” the Stand-in muttered. The nine men, out of the camera’s field, donned golden helmets identical to Smith’s, whistled six notes to the audio-combination, then slipped out the thick steel door as it clicked and came open.
The Red was jeering at him quietly. “Afraid to take off your mask, President? The rabble? Or your self-appointed Stand-ins? Which frightens you, President—”
John Smith plucked at a latch under his chin, and the golden headdress came apart down the sides. He lifted it off and laid it casually aside, revealing a hard, blocky face, slightly in need of a shave, with cool blue eyes and blond brows. His hair was graying slightly at the temples, with a fortyish hairline.
The Red nodded. “Greetings, human. I doubted that you would.”
“Why not?” growled Smith.
“Because you fear your Stand-ins, as appointees, not subject to your ‘rabble.’ Our ruling clique selects its own members, but they are subject to popular approval or recall by referendum. I fear nothing from them.”
“Let’s not compare our domestic forms, Peoplesfriend.”
“I wanted to point out,” the Asian continued calmly, “that your system slipped into what it is without realizing it. A bad was allowed to grow worse. We, however were reacting against unreasonableness and stupidity within our own system. In the year —”
“I am aware of your history before the Big Silence. May we discuss pertinent matters—?”
The Asian stared at him sharply. The frown grew deeper. The black eyes looked haughty. “If you really want to discuss something, John Smith, suppose we arrange a personal meeting in a non-walled, neutral region? Say, Antarctica?”
John Smith XVI, unaccustomed to dealing without a mask, let surprise fill his face before he caught himself. The Asian chuckled but said nothing. The President studied the border of the teleview screen for a moment.
“I shall have to consider your proposal,” he said dully.
The Peoplesfriend nodded curtly, then suggested a time for the next interview. Smith revised it ahead to gain more time, and agreement was reached. The screen went blank; the interview was at an end. The Sixteenth Smith took a slow, worried breath, then slowly donned the mask of office again. He summoned the nine Primaries immediately.
“That was dangerous, John,” one of them warned him as they entered. “You may regret it. They knew you were in here alone. We’re not all identical from the neck-down you know. When we come out, they might compare—”
He cut the man off with a curt gesture. “No time. We’re in a bad situation. Maybe worse than I guess.” He began pacing the floor and staring down at the metallifiber rug as he spoke. “He knows more about us than he should. It took me awhile to realize that he’s speaking our latest language variations. A language changes idiom in forty years, and slang. He’s got the latest phrases. ‘Greetings, human’ is one, like a rabbleman says
