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 pock-marked 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 he pushed the scrap of paper across the table. John stared, and felt the blood leaving his face. The prepared statement said: _I VETO YOU._