Promise of Joy

by Allen Drury

  “It will not be withdrawn,” Lin said calmly. “The United States has so conditioned the world to these humanitarian impulses in recent decades that it could not possibly be withdrawn. Your own people would condemn you for a heartless monster if you used aid as a club against us, Mr. President. Is that not the case?”

  “My own people and the peoples outside your two countries, Mr. President, are in such a state of fear and worry at this moment that they will condone almost anything that will force an end to this conflict. Make no mistake of that.”

  “Nonetheless,” Lin said softly, “I think aid will not be used in such a fashion.” He looked along the table at his solemn colleagues. “But let us not argue. We will consider it.” Vigorous nods agreed.

  “Please do,” he said dryly. “It would be of great assistance.”

  “Assuredly,” Lin said politely, and the President could see that irony was going to get him nowhere, if, indeed, it was even understood. He made his tone deliberately matter-of-fact.

  “Also in the international area, the United Nations has created an international peace-keeping force, to which most of the nations are contributing men and matériel, which will take positions along your border with Russia for as long as necessary to guarantee a permanent peace.”

  There was a silence. The faces across the table remained carefully bland. It was obvious, however, that a great deal of thinking was going on.

  “Where along the border?” Lin inquired cautiously.

  “Wherever the United Nations command deems advisable,” he said crisply. “I believe the plan is, at intervals of no more than a hundred miles, with regular patrols out fifty on each side.”

  “It is a very long border,” Lin observed, echoing his counterpart in Moscow.

  “Whatever is necessary will be provided.”

  “Who would establish the locations?”

  “The United Nations command. Who did you think?”

  “It would appear to us,” Lin said slowly, again almost word for word repeating Shulatov, “that the governments of China and Russia should do it, in agreement with one another.”

  “What reason do we have to believe you could agree?” the President asked bluntly. “Your disagreements have brought this horror on the world. Are we to believe you could agree now, on something so sensitive?”

  “It should be done by us,” Lin said stubbornly.

  “Both your countries will be represented on the international command,” the President said. A shrewd little glint came into his host’s eyes.

  “By how many?”

  “By approximately one hundred observers each,” he said flatly, and ignored the audible grunt of dismay that echoed down the opposite side of the table. “Mr. President,” he said, leaning forward. “Do you really think that you and your opponents are in any position to bargain with the world on these matters? You are the aggressors. You are the warmakers. You are the destroyers of the earth, unless we can all stop you. You are no longer great arrogant independent powers who can toss around the very life of this planet as though it were a bauble for you to play with. You have been called to account, by your own actions. It is time for you to be responsible to the world. The world must have guarantees that you will be responsible. And so it will be done.”

  For several moments after he sat back, there was silence in the room, the Chinese staring at the Americans and the Americans staring back.

  Finally Lin spoke with a cautious articulation.

  “I would assume that the details will be discussed in the Security Council.”

  “No doubt,” the President said, “but of course you know the veto no longer exists.”

  “No!” Lin said in open dismay, and all down his side of the table a genuine consternation broke the determined calm.

  “Yes,” he said, in the same words he had used to Shulatov. “The Charter was amended the night the former governments fell. There is no more veto.”

  Here, as in Moscow, there was a prolonged silence while the news was absorbed; and here, as in Moscow, there was, finally, the same response.

  “It will be considered,” Lin said. “Are there other things?”

  “A formal statement of withdrawal from Gorotoland and Panama; recognition of the new governments now in power, a pledge to support the democratically formed governments which will presently be elected there under United Nations auspices.”

  Lin nodded, his expression for the moment friendlier.

  “There is no problem. The new China has no more interest in imperialistic adventures. You may tell the world, Mr. President, that from now on we intend to stay home.”

  “Good!” Orrin exclaimed with the same exaggerated relief he had used in Moscow, and briefly they were all united in a wry amusement. “In that case, then, you will have no difficulty in subscribing to a formal pledge that you are abandoning permanently, once and for all, imperialistic, expansionist policies everywhere in the world—that you formally renounce all desire and ambition to intervene in the affairs of other nations—and that you will devote your funds, your energies, your purposes, to the peaceful development of your own society within your own borders.”

  Abruptly the amusement ceased. A very careful silence followed. Into it Lin finally spoke in a very careful voice.

  “It is one thing, Mr. President, to renounce imperialist adventures far from home in the Third World area. But … other matters … closer at hand … perhaps require … more consideration. For instance: I believe even the great United States, which is now indisputably the world’s most dominant power—indeed, who else is there?—requires along her borders the presence of friendly people, does she not? So we, too, have an interest—quite aside from our Russian border—in Indochina, in Japan, in India, in the Himalayan states. Can the United Nations guarantee us friendly governments there? If not, we would not wish to pledge ourselves not to be concerned.”

  Once again, as he had in Moscow, the President tried to put it in perspective. But he realized his difficulties more vividly now than he had then: these were people who literally still did not know what was going on in the outside world.

  “Mr. President,” he said earnestly, “I understand that your own concerns here in China have very naturally prevented you from keeping up with the state of mind of the rest of the world. I realize it is only my word and that of my colleagues which can tell you of it. But the nations are terrified, Mr. President. Their peoples are frantic with fear. You do not understand what the fact of atomic war has done to the world. None of us has designs on anything but achieving a peace that will at last be really genuine and really lasting. Everyone has renounced conquest. The nations want only to live in peace with one another. No one will threaten you. Your borders are quite, quite safe.”

  “Now,” Lin said, his tone faraway and sad. “Now they are safe. Now the nations feel this way. When will they change, Mr. President?”

  “When they see that China and Russia are not changing,” he said. “Then they will change, Mr. President. Do you wish to assume that responsibility?”

  “Our responsibility is China,” Lin said simply, as Shulatov had said about Russia. “We can only consider these things in relation to that.… We will consider it,” he said finally. “It must be considered.…”

  “Please do,” the President said quietly. “With great care, and with great prayerfulness, because so much depends upon it.… And so we return,” he went on, and on both sides of the table tension and uncertainty were instantly present again, “to the question of disarmament.”

  “Mr. President,” Lin said quickly, “before we do, if I might venture to suggest: this has been a long and tiring session this morning. Again, we have prepared a meal for you and our friends of the press.” He smiled. “A noontime meal, not too strenuous, but ample. Why do we not meet the press and have our meal, and then we can meet again, say, at four p.m.?”

  “Before we meet with our colleagues present, Mr. President,” Orrin countered quietly, “I sh
ould like to meet with you alone. Could we do that at four and meet with our advisers at six?”

  For a moment his host looked uncertain, wary and exceedingly cautious. Then he thought better of it, relaxed and smiled.

  “I see no harm.”

  “I hope I see positive good,” the President said. “Fine. Then let us go and talk to the press, and then we shall eat.”

  “Yes,” said Lin, still smiling. “Let us do that.”

  At the press conference something of this final little show of amicability transmitted itself to their questioners. The headlines indicated some improvement: though if truth were known, the President thought grimly, there really was none.

  Second Peking meeting goes better. Knox, Lin say discussions “making progress.” Both sides appear more confident of agreement. Moscow warns against “any attempt to forge U.S.-China alliance against Russia.” First purge trials start in Kremlin with former premier Tashikov on stand.

  Report rioting in both countries as wounded demand international aid supplies. UN officials still unable to reach war zones.

  “Mr. President,” he said, “I wanted to talk to you privately because I do not think you yet realize the absolute necessity of reaching a real agreement here, particularly on the subject of disarmament. You simply do not realize the state of the world.”

  “I realize the state of China,” Lin said with a grim little smile. “That is quite vast enough for one man’s comprehension.”

  “Yes, I agree with that. Nonetheless, you must look beyond. You must relate it to all the nations and to the desperate condition of mind of all the peoples. I told you the world is terrified, Mr. President: the word is not too strong. All the distant memories of Hiroshima and Nagasaki that were becoming faint, all the thoughtless learning-to-live-with-it that had become such a habit when people thought about nuclear warfare, all the comfortable belief that it-can’t-ever-really-happen-because-mankind-is-too-intelligent-to-destroy-itself were wiped out in a moment when the first bombs fell in Asia.”

  “The first bombs from Russia,” Lin said, smile fading, grimness growing.

  “Yes!” the President said sharply. “The first bombs from Russia. But only because China didn’t get there first.… In any event,” he said more calmly, ignoring the sudden angry look his last words had produced, “the bombs fell, hell opened, Doomsday crashed upon the world—or would have, had the two governments not thought better of it and drawn back. But not before they had given us all a graphic example of what Doomsday could be like had things gone just one step further. I think the world is united in believing that if you resume fighting, that one step further will be taken and presently we will all be sucked down into the vortex you will have created. Your former governments were the governments of war. You are supposed to be the governments of peace. That is why I am here, and it is to that I pin my hopes. But, Mr. President, it cannot be done without your cooperation.”

  “Why ours?” Lin demanded harshly. “Why not the Russians’? Why must you try to bring pressure upon us? It is because you have not been successful in applying it to the Russians. That is why.”

  “Explain to me, Mr. President,” he said softly, “why it is necessary for me to bring pressure upon anyone. Why must I argue with you? Why must I argue with Shulatov? Why are not the facts of your own two devastated countries enough? What more do you need, complete and total annihilation of the earth before you will believe that peace is necessary?”

  “We have told you we believe peace is necessary,” Lin said, unmoved, “but it must be peace with justice. We have told you what justice is. Why must I argue with you?”

  “Because that way lies just one result,” he said, forcing himself to speak with a patience he did not feel, so many were the hobgoblins of the world that screamed silently around his head in the quiet and secluded room in the American Embassy. “That way lies exactly what I have just said: complete and total annihilation of the earth. What becomes of China and Russia then? What becomes of ‘justice,’ as you call it, which is really only vengeance and hatred and the same old vindictive path to disaster? What becomes of all your pomp and pretense? Nothing, Mr. President: nothing! China will be a desert. Russia will be a desert. America and all the rest may very likely be a desert. The globe itself may burst. Who will ever know of Lin Kung-chow and Orrin Knox and Alexei Shulatov then? We do face Doomsday, Mr. President. Someone must be brave enough to take the first step to lead us back. If you have any conscience at all—if you really care for China, and it isn’t all just talk—then consider that, Mr. President, I beg of you: consider it!”

  And for several minutes, while they stared at one another with a gaze that did not flinch or falter on either side, Lin did.

  At last he made a little shrugging gesture with his hands and let them fall before him on the table.

  “Mr. President,” he said quietly, “you are a brave man, to lead the world as you are, to come to Moscow and to Peking as you are. I believe you when you describe the feelings of the nations. I believe your sincerity when you express your own feelings. I also agree”—he sighed, and for the first time in three days the faintest gleam of hope entered the mind of the President of the United States of America—“that others must follow your lead in taking the steps back from Doomsday. But, Mr. President, we cannot do it alone. There must be equal response from Moscow. And so far”—he shrugged again, this time with a bleak and desolate air—“you have not been able to secure it.”

  “Nor can I,” he said evenly, “without some gesture of agreement from you. Can you do nothing at all to help us, Mr. President? Out of all of China’s ancient wisdom, can humanity receive no help in its awful hour?”

  “But why must we—?” Lin began; and the President interrupted gravely:

  “Because that is how it is. Because someone must have charity—someone must be the leader—someone must be brave. Can you do it?”

  Again there was a long silence, again their gazes held. And again, at last, there was the little shrugging, desolate, unhappy gesture from his host.

  “You have a disarmament agreement,” Lin said, voice low. “What does it say?”

  “Yes,” he said, taking it from his coat pocket with a hand that noticeably trembled, pushing a copy across the table. “We may amend the preliminary language as you like, but the essential clause is the agreement of China, Russia and the United States to reduce all armaments at least one-half by six months from now; at least two-thirds a year from now; and to small defense forces only, thereafter. All such reductions to be accomplished under United Nations supervision. All excess armaments, where not destroyed, to be turned over to the United Nations for an international peace-keeping force in which all three signatories pledge themselves to participate fully whenever and wherever needed.”

  Once more silence held while Lin Kung-chow studied the paper at great length; at one point started to push it back, then thought better of it and drew it back to study again; and finally folded it carefully, placed it precisely in front of him and looked up.

  “All I can do at this point,” he said slowly, “is agree in principle that China will give these proposals the most serious consideration”—he raised a cautionary hand as the President shifted uneasily in his chair—“at a conference to be held in Geneva, starting one week from today”—the President started to smile—“providing”—the President’s expression froze—“the new government of Russia makes the same pledge when you return there tomorrow.”

  With an air of great relief, the President finally did smile and, rising, extended his hand, which Lin shook with a quick, hard emphasis.

  “Mr. President,” Orrin said, his voice filled with an emotion he made no attempt to hide, “I thank you indeed. That is not everything—but it is much; and using it as a foundation, I think together we can build a peace. I shall take back the word to Moscow, and I anticipate that there your wonderful example will produce the results for which the world prays.”

  “I hope so,�
�� Lin said with a return to bleakness, “for if it does not, your fears of Doomsday may yet come true.”

  “They cannot,” he said firmly, “for mankind has a destiny better than that.”

  “I hope so,” Lin said again in the same bleak way. “I hope so. Shall we call our colleagues in and tell them?”

  And after they had done so, with much hand-shaking, congratulating, hope-expressing and inner doubts and reservations, they again met the press; and this time the public emphasis was all positive, and around the world men’s hearts lifted and men’s hopes soared.

  Disarmament! Knox, Lin reach agreement in principle on speedy reduction of forces, propose Geneva conference to settle details. President to return to Moscow tonight.

  Russians withhold commitment, say they must “study all proposals carefully before reaching decision.”

  First plague verified in Manchuria.

  Again they left an airport, again his tired but indomitable caravansary took flight on yet another lap of its gallant journey: from Cathay to Muscovy, he thought, with an ironic little inward bow to history’s romantic echoes—from Cathay to Muscovy, and what would brave Marco Polo find there?

  Not too much to encourage him, he feared, studying the intelligence reports that lay before him in his private cabin as the scattered lights of Peking faded away below. The picture was still chaotic in all the vast war zone, and in the capital of the new Russian state there appeared to be no lessening of the hard line that had openly developed since his departure. Shulatov and his colleagues were running true to form, apparently: in some ways it seemed there had been no change, so smoothly and swiftly had the new military government moved into the patterns of the old Communist regime. Censorship, suppression, intransigence, defiance, a harsh suspicion of the outside world and a harsh rejection of its desperate yearnings for peace—like the Bourbons, the Russians seemingly had learned nothing and forgotten nothing. It demonstrated, he supposed, what the Communists had always maintained: that the human mind could indeed be permanently conditioned and that once it was programmed in a certain direction it would continue on that line regardless of circumstance.