Meeting At The Summit

                           By Ivar Jorgensen

               Some readers will accuse us of injecting
            politics into the magazine with this story; we
             submit the idea transcends party preferences!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
                             February 1956
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


It was quite late when the Press Secretary asked for an audience.

He was one of the very few who made direct contact--a trusted friend of
the President as well as an able buffer between the chief executive and
the fourth estate.

The President said, "Why certainly--if it's that important. Come right
up."

As the line went dead, the President put down the phone and picked up
the western story anthology he had been reading. He thumbed the pages
pensively, then laid that down too and sat back in his chair. He closed
his eyes.

So darn seldom he got a chance to read anymore; or to do anything else
for that matter except play a little golf once in a while and spend the
rest of the time trying to stem the world's mad dash to destruction.

He smiled gently, his tired eyes still closed. He estimated it would
take the Press Secretary a good ten minutes to get to the White House.
Good. The President had come to a point where he savored every precious
moment of solitude.

He let his mind drift--first to the state of the world. It wasn't so
bad, really. Not in comparison. After all, a cold war was better than
a hot one. And even the cold war was softening up a little. Enough
to--the President's smile deepened.

Enough to quit.

That was his big secret. He hadn't told them yet. In deference to
political strategy, responsibility to the party, and that sort of
thing, he'd held his peace. But his decision had been made. He would
not run again. A man, he told himself, is entitled to a few blessed
years as his own master; a time when he ceases to be a slave of duty.
Why just think! To grab the clubs and shoot eighteen without having
to make "arrangements"! To go out and catch a couple of fish without
the Secret Service plotting the course, calling the tune, following,
grim-faced in his wake.

The President's smile deepened. It was all so darned crazy! You go out
to get a little relaxation--to catch a fish. But before you arrive the
stream has to be stocked so thick you can almost walk on the beauties
because if the President failed to catch a trout in one of their
mountain streams, the state involved gets a black eye and might lose a
few thousand tourists that year. He wondered idly if they gave the fish
a pep talk when they tossed them in.

But that sort of thing would be finished, soon. He was going to quit.
He was going to tell them--

"Mr. President."

He jerked erect, blinked, and gave the Press Secretary his famous
smile--half-apologetic now. "Sorry. I was napping I guess. Didn't hear
you. Sit down--sit down."

The Press Secretary did as instructed and the President was struck
by the tight, stricken look on his gray face. "Good Lord, Jim! What
happened? You look as though somebody just dropped a bomb on New York
City." He could afford to speak lightly because he knew any news of
grave import would not come through the Press Secretary.

The latter appeared to have difficulty with his reply. With the
President's eye upon him--sharp but friendly--he floundered for a
moment, then said, "I might as well give it to you straight, Mr.
President. Then we can go on from there."

"An excellent idea."

"All right--here goes. A man contacted me and requests that you come to
the top of Mount Ranier for a conference."

The President couldn't find any words. The silence was heavy.

"And I think you'd better go," the Press Secretary finished in a voice
charged with sheer misery. He sat mute, wondering what was going on
through The President's mind.

Finally the chief executive said, "Jim--I--really--"

The Press Secretary leaned forward, his whole being tense. "Mr.
President. Please answer one question--honestly. Do you think I've lost
my mind? Do you think I've suddenly gone crazy?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The reply was in a quiet tone.

"No, Jim--I don't. I know you too well for that. I think you're saying
something you have to say--doing a job you feel you have to do--even if
it puts you in a position where you have to ask a question like that."

"Thank you."

"And now--why don't you just sit back and explain it? I'll be frank. It
makes no sense to me. But I'm listening."

A warm feeling swept the Press Secretary. This president we had. This
solid rock of a guy. You just couldn't beat him!

The homely, earnest ex-journalist leaned forward again. "The success of
this mission, Mr. President--my visit here--hinges upon whether or not
you believe I'm telling the truth. I'm going to tell you some strange
things. And if you doubt my word--" he shrugged, "well--I will have
just wasted your time."

"Go ahead with it, Jim." The words were almost sharp now.

"All right, sir." He took a deep breath and plunged in. "I've just had
a briefing such as no man on this globe ever went through. I've been to
the top of Mount Ranier."

"When?"

"Tonight."

"Go on."

"I'll tell you step-by-step exactly what happened--or what seemed to
happen. Then you can make your decision."

The Press Secretary began to talk. He talked for a long time. The
President listened, his face a mask giving no clue whatever to his
inner thoughts. This was a trick he learned over conference tables
through the years. His skill at this would have made him a great poker
player but he never cared for the game.

When the Press Secretary stopped talking, he sat looking at the
President with question marks in his eyes. He had no idea what the
latter would say or do. The possible extremes were in his mind. The
President might smile and say, "You've done a good job, Jim." Or he
might reach for the phone and say, "Please send in two strong men and a
straight jacket."

The President did neither. He spoke very quietly. "I think I'd better
go to Mount Ranier. Tell them I'm ready."

The Press Secretary picked up the phone, dialed a number. When the
party at the other end answered, he said, "The President agrees. He
awaits your contact."

He put down the phone and they sat looking at each other, waiting.
There was nothing else to do, now. The President's eyes were vague as
though he were looking through space and time. He said, "We've come a
long way in a very short time, Jim. It's worth pondering."

"A long way, Mr. President."

"In a scant fifty years, we've gone practically straight up in matters
of science, invention--" The thought broke off as his mind went to some
of the things his Press Secretary had told him. And regardless of the
gravity of this situation, he found himself looking forward to seeing
them for himself.

He had not long to wait. A moment later an odd red haze appeared in a
far corner of the room. There was a crackling sound as of high-voltage
electricity jumping its bounds. The phenomenon vanished as quickly as
it had appeared and a young man was approaching the President's chair.

So far as the President could see, he might have been one of the bright
young career men who hurried about Washington these days; except that
the eternal briefcase was missing and the young man wore a one-piece
coverall type of garment in pastel red. He was blonde, pleasant, and
had even, white teeth. He was also respectful.

He bowed and said, "Mr. President. I have been sent to conduct you and
your assistant to the rendezvous."

The President glanced quickly at the Press Secretary, then said, "Of
course."

"If you will be so kind as to move with me to the far corner of the
room."

The Press Secretary's expression said, _It's all right. This is just
how it happened to me_, and they followed the young man across the
thick carpeting.

In the corner, he arranged them precisely. "If you will stand just
there--" Then he stepped between them and looked pleasantly unconcerned.

The President tensed himself for what was to come. But nothing came
except the crackling and the red light; the dissolving of the walls and
the young man saying, "You may sit down now if you wish."

No physical discomfort whatever.

       *       *       *       *       *

The President sat down and looked about. He was in a small,
well-furnished room, pastelled in a light shade of green complimenting
the young man's uniform, and he got the flash of an idea that color
was very important in the scheme of whatever science brought this
transposition about.

There was a soft whirring sound. The President said, "May I ask where
we are?"

"Certainly, sir. We are in a small ship. We are crossing your country
at around one hundred thousand of your feet."

"At what speed?"

This gave the young man pause. "It would be very hard to translate into
terms with which you are familiar. I would say roughly the speed of
light. The major time-lapse is consumed in ascent and descent."

The President showed great interest. "Tell me this--we were moved from
my study through some scientific process I won't ask you to explain,
but why weren't we carried the entire distance to Ranier in that
manner?"

The young man pondered. "That is of course difficult for you to
understand. And quite difficult for me to explain so allow me to put it
this way. When planning a trip from Washington to New York, you walk
from your office to your car, and ride in the car from your residence
to the airport."

"I see--a matter of slower speeds over short distances."

"In a way, but more so a matter of practicality. You could hardly bring
the car into your office nor the aircraft onto your front lawn."

The President let it rest there. He said, "One more thing--why was I
not contacted directly in this matter?"

This embarrassed the young man. "Wherever we go, sir, we attempt to
conform to customs and manner existing in that place. We understood
that to reach The President of the United States, one always proceeds
through channels."

The President smiled. The humming sound ceased. The young man arose,
forestalling further questions.

"This way, if you will be so kind."

The President and the Press Secretary followed the young man from the
room into a low corridor. The walls of this passage were transparent
and the President caught his breath at the grandeur outside. He got the
impression they were moving from the small ship to a larger one perched
precariously on the edge of an abyss. Below, under bright moonlight,
lay the snow-covered approaches to Ranier and her sister peaks. A view
of overpowering majesty such as few men had ever seen. One of the
reasons, the President thought, why some men join the air force.

They entered another room, this one with a blue motif, through another
door that opened automatically on approach, and into one of pastel
green.

This room was somewhat larger but no more ornate nor less efficiently
furnished than the others. A streamlined, oval desk sat in its center
from the far side of which a man arose and held forth his hand.

He was slim as a reed and had snow-white hair. He gave the impression
of ripe years yet with no physical indications of this other than a
head of beautiful snow-white hair. Perhaps, the President thought, this
indication was an illusion. And perhaps the aura of power emanating
from the man was also an illusion but the President would not have been
willing to bet on it.

The man's smile was an odd mixture of friendliness and impersonality
as they shook hands. He said, "My name is Rex, Mr. President. The
fact that in one of your languages the word means _king_ is purely
coincidental. I am not a monarch in any sense. My title is Director of
the Seventh Sector."

As Rex had got to his feet, the chair under him had swung under the
desk out of his way. Now it moved back to its original position. And
as the President took the seat Rex indicated beside the desk, he had a
whimsical thought: _I wonder how that chair knew he was ready to sit
down again?_

       *       *       *       *       *

Rex nodded to the young man in the pastel-red uniform. The latter bowed
slightly, turned and left the room. Rex turned his dark eyes--almost
feminine in their beauty--on the President. His quick smile was even
more impersonal now. "Shall we get to the business at hand, or could
you do with a little refreshment first?"

"I'd prefer the former," The President said briefly.

"Good. I imagine your aide told you some of it, but I'd better recap
that and then go on."

Rex nodded briefly in The Press Secretary's direction. It was the
silvery-haired man's first acknowledgement of his presence.

"You are probably curious as to who I am and just what the Seventh
Sector is. I'll tell you. The Seventh Sector is a team denoting
a certain part of the known universe. It contains approximately
nine-hundred thousand solids of a twenty-million-ton weight or over.
Eleven of these solids supports animate life at around the evolutionary
stage of your own--or higher. Do you follow me?"

When The President was slow in answering, Rex said "I suggest you lay
aside any mental resistance and take all statements I make as fact."

"Why should I do that?"

"Because my deceiving you would be pointless and because I must
transfer a great deal of information to your mind in a very short time."

The President said nothing and Rex went on. "As Director of this
sector, it is my job to check the development on its various planets
and make progress reports to the Council."

"And this Council is located--?"

"Many light years from here--at the hub of the known universe, but that
is not important."

"I thought perhaps we--or our representatives might someday--"

"Appear before it? I'm afraid not. I fear you are treading the path of
those who once inhabited your neighbor planet, Mars."

"Then life does exist--or did--on Mars?"

"Oh yes, but we were forced to eliminate it."

The President spoke calmly. "Then you are able to depopulate whole
planets?"

"Whole systems if necessary. Let me explain. When conditions are right,
life inevitably comes into existence upon a planet. The entities
involved are always pretty much as you and I, physically, because
conditions produce a ruling race of our structure or do not produce
life at all.

"The problem, Mr. President, lies in the spiritual. Every race on
every inhabited planet is given the intelligence and desire to evolve
upward spiritually but they do not always succeed. A time limit is set
on this so that the inhabitants of each planet arrive finally at an
evolutionary crisis."

The President thought of nuclear fission, the atom bomb, mankind's
incredible progress over the last two hundred years. "And you have come
to aid us in spiritual development?"

"On the contrary. You have had all the guidance necessary--far more
than those on most planets--more than did your neighbors on Mars. I
have come to annihilate you."

The President hid his shock well. "If killing me will--"

"Annihilate life on the planet. You see, Mr. President, there comes a
time when each inhabited planet must join the Council--when it reaches
a point at which its existence affects the great family of planets. If
at that time, its state of affairs and development are negative, its
population is eradicated for the greater good."

"May I ask two questions?" The President said.

"You may."

"Thank you. First, why do you contact only me with this news? I am the
titular head of only one nation on this planet. There are many others."

"I would rather reserve the answer to that question."

"Very well, the second. How can we affect a family of inhabited planets
the existence of which we are not even aware. Planets with which we
have no contact whatever?"

"In a few short years you would know of their existence--you would not
only be able to contact them--you would visit them and they would visit
you."

"And just how would we affect them adversely?"

"That should be apparent. Your present state of dwarfed spirituality
is made clear by your background of violence and injustice. I refer to
your planet rather than to your nation. Practically all your scientific
progress has come as a result of war. Nations that lose a war on your
planet study and invent and discover like demons possessed for tools
with which to win the next one. Do you deny that at this moment your
planet is little more than an armed camp?"

"No," The President said sadly. "I cannot deny this."

"Then you realize why we cannot let you move out into space, carrying
with you the greed, the envy, the hatred, the violence that stalks the
corridors of your history."

       *       *       *       *       *

There was no doubt in the President's mind that this remarkable man
could back up his every word. His statements were not idle threats. The
President said, "But your accusations are not entirely just. You make
no mention of our great progress toward spiritual goals in the past
hundred years--even the past fifty have seen marked changes in that
direction."

"I have noted that. It is what caused me to make this contact with you.
Ordinarily, no such contact would have been made. I would have checked
the planet, reported it to the Council, and annihilation would have
been automatic."

"Then there is hope for us?"

A look of skepticism was mirrored in Rex's eyes. "A slim one,
perhaps--a very slim one." He leaned suddenly forward. "You asked me
why I contacted you only. Because, of all the nations on this planet,
yours is the most powerful--the first powerful nation in the history of
your planet that has fought no wars of aggression--that has subjugated
no weaker nations. Certainly a hopeful overall sign."

"And greater progress will be made in the future. Progress comes
slowly. We must have time."

"But progress has been too slow. There is little time left."

"Could you be more specific?"

"In rare cases, where planets have been found to be approaching a crest
so to speak, extensions have been granted."

"And you will grant us an extension?"

"I'm not sure. There is nothing, at the moment, that justifies one."
Rex pondered. "Yet there are strong indications--"

The President waited. Rex gave his decision. "I will withhold judgment
for five years. At the end of that time, I will contact you again. My
judgment will then rest on what progress you have made in the interim."

"But I am only one man!"

"A powerful man. And I am very much afraid the fate of the planet lies
with you and your nation."

The President arose from his chair. Rex did likewise. The President
said, "I will go personally to the United Nations--all together the
heads of all the nations--"

Rex shook his head. "I'm sorry. I can allow no such deviation from the
channel of your present efforts. Telling your world of this meeting
would put it in the nature of a threat. Thus, any results achieved
would come through fear of punishment and would not be permanent."

"There is one more point. Mine is an elective office. I may not be in
the President's chair five years from now."

Rex considered gravely. "I see. In that case, one of two things will
happen, depending upon the man in your present office and the sincerity
of his efforts."

"And they are--?"

"Perhaps we will contact him and give him our decision."

"Or--?"

Rex shrugged. "Perhaps we won't bother." He held out his hand.
"Goodbye, Mr. President, and good luck...."

       *       *       *       *       *

The President of the United States sat alone in his study. His face
seemed wearier than usual. There was a sag in his shoulders that would
have drawn comment in public. He was considering his future--the future
of the world.

There were of course many good men in both parties. In the privacy of
his own thoughts, it was hard to judge which party had really done the
nation greater service. At one time, he himself had debated running for
the Presidency on the other ticket. The country would be in good hands
regardless.

Ordinarily.

But now it came down to the man rather than the party. Would he be
able to convince an incoming president of what had occurred on Mount
Ranier? Make him truly understand how little time remained? Would his
predecessor have been able to convince him?

No. Of course not. Only he, The President of the United States, knew of
the peril ahead. He pressed a button on his desk. The Press Secretary
entered. The President straightened his shoulders. "When the right
moment comes," he said, "tell them I will run again."

_And God grant I win_, he added in his heart.