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."