[Illustration]
_Almost anything, if it goes on long enough, can be reduced to, first a
Routine, and then, to a Tradition. And at the point it is, obviously,
Necessary._
Two king-sized bands blared martial music, the "_Internationale_" and
the "Star-Spangled Banner," each seemingly trying to drown the other in
a _Götterdämmerung_ of acoustics.
Two lines of troops, surfacely differing in uniforms and in weapons, but
basically so very the same, so evenly matched, came to attention. A
thousand hands slapped a thousand submachine gun stocks.
Marshal Vladimir Ignatov strode stiff-kneed down the long march, the
stride of a man for years used to cavalry boots. He was flanked by
frozen 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 figures
emerged, 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 darting
here, there, politician-like. A half smile on his face, as though afraid
he 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 as
protocol would permit.
The field marshal indicated the door of the conference hall. "There is
little reason to waste time, Mr. President."
"Exactly," Donlevy snapped.
* * * * *
The door closed behind them and the two men, one uniformed and
bemedaled, the other nattily attired in his business suit, turned to
each 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 up
on 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 people
doing on cancer research?"
Vovo was stripping off his tunic. He hung it over the back of one of the
chairs, began to unbutton his high, tight military collar. "I'm not
really up on it, Jim, but I think that's one field where you can trust
anything we know to be in the regular scientific journals our people
exchange 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 be
one 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 the
table. He grimaced, "No vodka, I don't feel patriotic today. How about
one of those long cold drinks, with the cola stuff?"
"Cuba libra," Jim said. "Coming up. Look, would you rather speak
Russian?"
"No," Vovo said, "my English is getting rusty. I need the practice."
Jim brought the glasses over and put them on the table. He began
stripping off his own coat, loosening his tie. "God, I'm tired," he
said. "This sort of thing wears me down."
Vovo sipped his drink. "Now there's as good a thing to discuss as any,
in the way of killing time. The truth now, Jim, do you really believe in
a God? After all that's happened to this human race of ours, do you
really believe in divine guidance?" He twisted his mouth sarcastically.
The other relaxed. "I don't know," he said. "I suppose so. I was raised
in a family that believed in God. Just as, I suppose, you were raised in
one that didn't." He lifted his shoulders slightly in a shrug. "Neither
of us seems to be particularly brilliant in establishing a position of
our own."
Vovo snorted. "Never thought of it that way," he admitted. "We're
usually contemptuous of anyone still holding to the old beliefs. There
aren't many left."
"More than you people admit, I understand."
Vovo shook his heavy head. "No, not really. Mostly crackpots. Have you
ever noticed how it is that the nonconformists in any society are
usually crackpots? The people on your side that admit belonging to our
organizations, are usually on the wild eyed and uncombed hair side--I
admit it. On the other hand, the people in our citizenry who subscribe
to your system, your religion, that sort of thing, are crackpots, too.
Applies to religion as well as politics. An atheist in your country is a
nonconformist--in mine, a Christian is. Both crackpots."
Jim laughed and took a sip of his drink.