Summit

E-text prepared by Greg Weeks, Geetu Melwani, Bruce Albrecht, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Transcriber's note. This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction , February, 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
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.