Grimly, he realized that the idea might have originated on the far side of the Pacific.
“Who, pray, is the potter, and who the pot?” he grunted, glowering at the nearest Stand-in.
“I beg your pardon?” answered the man, who could not see the glower for the mask.
“Khayyam, you fool!”
“Oh—”
“!” cheeped the timepiece on the wall. “Fifthday, Anti-Rabies Week, Practice-Eugenics Week; Happy ; Peep!”
Ivan came on the screen, but John did not bother to remove his mask. He sat down quickly and began speaking before any greeting could be exchanged.
“I have decided to accept your last proposal. I specify the meeting place as the deserted weather station at the old settlement of Tharviana in the Byrd-Ellsworth Sector of Antarctica. Date to be Seventhday of Fried Pie Week. Advance cadres of personnel from both sides should meet at the site two weeks earlier to make repairs and preparations. Do you agree?”
Ivan nodded impatiently, his dark eyes watching the President closely. Smith went on to suggest limits for the size of both cadres, their equipment, and the kind of transportation. Ivan made only one suggestion: that the details, such as permissible arms and standards of conduct, be left to the cadre commanders to settle between themselves before the leaders’ parties arrived.
“Your continual espionage activities,” Smith said coldly, “do not recommend your government as one to be trusted in the matter of agreements without guarantees. My cadre commander will be instructed as to details.”
The Asian grunted. “You speak of trust, yet violate it in advance by preparing an assault against us.”
They glared at each other. After a few more words, the conversation ended abruptly, and the matter was tentatively settled.
It was Antarctic Summer. The sun lay low in the north, but clouds threatened to obscure it, and a forbidding coastline hulked under the ugly sky. A small group of ships sulked to the east, and watched another group that sulked to the west. Two rows of buoys marked an ice-free strip across the choppy face of the sea.
A speck appeared in the north, grew larger, became a giant seaplane. It circled once, then swooped majestically down between the rows of buoys, its atomic-fired jets breathing heat over the water. It slid between streamers of spray until slowly it came to a coasting halt and rode on the rise and the fall of the sea. A section of its back rolled open. It pushed a helicopter up into view. The helicopter unfolded its rotors, spun them, then climbed lazily aloft like a beetle that had ridden the eagle. It soared, and travelled inland. The seaplane taxied west to join one group of ships.
The helicopter landed near a long, windowless concrete building which lay in the shadow of an old control-tower’s skeleton. The tower was twisted awry, and the concrete was pockmarked by shrapnel or bullets dating back to one of the peace-efforts. The President, two Stand-ins, and the pilot climbed from the helicopter. A small detachment of troops presented arms. The cadre commander, a major general, approached the delegation formally, gave it a salute, and took the President’s hand.
“The Peoplesfriend is already in the conference hall, Sir, with several of his aides. Do you wish to enter now, or—”
“Where are their troops?”
“Over there, Sir. As you know, we could not agree to completely disarm the site. Only inside the building itself.”
“Any unpleasantness?”
“No, sir. Their men are well-disciplined.”
“Then let’s go and get started. I assume that you’re in constant contact with the capitol?”
“Yes, Sir. Televiewphone relay chain all the way up.”
John looked around. The Peoplesfriend’s helicopter was parked not far away, and beyond it stood a platoon of the Peoplesfriend’s troops, lightly armed as his own.
An Asian and a Western guard flanked the entrance to the building, but their only weapons were police-clubs. The party entered slowly and stood for a moment just inside the heavy door that swung closed behind them. John Smith removed his mask.
“Greetings, human.”
The dull voice called it from the far end of the gloomy hall where Ivan Ivanovitch IX sat facing him, flanked by a pair of aides, at a long, plain table. John Smith XVI advanced with dignity toward him. Curt bows were exchanged, but no handshakes. The Western delegation took their seats.
John nudged the Stand-in on his right, who immediately opened a portfolio to extract a sheaf of papers.
“Would you care to exchange prepared statements to begin with?” Smith asked coolly.
“We have no—” The Peoplesfriend stopped, smirked coldly at his deputies but continued to frown. He peered thoughtfully at his huge knuckles for a moment, then nodded slowly. “A statement—yes.”
John slid a section of the sheaf of papers to the Peoplesfriend. The Red leader ignored them, spoke to a deputy curtly.
“Give me a sheet of paper.”
The deputy fumbled in a thin briefcase, shook his head and muttered. Finally he found a dog-eared sheet with only a few lines typed across the top. He glanced questioningly at his leader. Ivan snatched it with a low grunt, tore off the good half, produced a stubby, gnawed pencil, and wrote slowly as if his hands were cramped with arthritis. John could see the big block-letters but not the words.
“My prepared statement,” said the Peoplesfriend.
With that
