Mr. President

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                         Transcriber's Note:

    This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction November 1953.
    Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
    copyright on this publication was renewed.


                            Mr. President


                            By STEPHEN ARR


                     Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS


     He had been overwhelmingly elected. Messages of sympathy
     poured in, but they couldn't help ... nothing could.

       *       *       *       *       *




George Wong stood pale and silent by the video screen, listening to
the election returns, a long-stemmed glass of champagne clutched
forgotten in his trembling right hand.

The announcer droned on: "--latest returns from Venus, with half of
the election districts reporting, give three billion four hundred and
ninety-six million votes for Wong, against one billion, four hundred
million for Thompson, one billion one hundred million for Miccio, and
nine hundred million for Kau. These results, added to the almost
complete returns from Earth and the first fragmentary reports from
Mars, clearly indicate a landslide vote for Wong as the next President
of the Solar Union. The two billion votes from Ganymede and Callisto,
which will be received early tomorrow morning, cannot appreciably
affect the results. The battle for the twenty-five Vice-Presidents is
less clear. It is certain that Thompson, Miccio, Kau, Singh, and
DuLavier will all be among those elected, but in what order is not
yet...."

Wong leaned over and snapped the video off. His shoulders sagged. He
leaned against the console as though too tired to move, a slight,
narrow-shouldered man with a very high forehead and thin receding
black hair. His large, sad, almond-shaped eyes and yellow-tinted skin
indicated that there was a good deal of Asiatic in the mixed blood
that flowed through his veins.

"I'm sorry, truly sorry," Michael Thompson said sympathetically,
placing a friendly arm across the narrow shoulders of the successful
candidate. They were alone in the living room of the hotel suite in
New Geneva, which they had shared for the campaign. "The people chose
well. After the wonderful job you did in organizing the colonization
of Io and Europa, you were the logical man. And then you do have the
fantastic Responsibility Quotient of 9.6 out of 10. Anyway," he added
with a weary shrug, "don't feel too bad--it looks as though I'll be
First Vice-President."

A brief ghost of a smile crossed George Wong's face. "We who are about
to die salute you," he said, lifting his glass in a bitter toast to
the blank video screen.

Thompson, the man who was to be First Vice-President, silently joined
him.

"At least," Wong sighed, putting his empty glass down on the video, "I
don't have a family. Look at poor Kau. At Miccio. With wives and
children, how they must have suffered when they learned they had been
drafted by the conventions.... Well, I guess there's nothing else to
do but to go to bed and wait until they come for me in the morning.
Good night, Michael."

"Good night, George," Michael Thompson said. He turned toward his own
room. "I _am_ sorry," he said again.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wong had already eaten breakfast and was dressed in an inconspicuous
tweed suit for the inauguration when the chimes sounded, telling him
that they were at the door. Slowly, he walked to the door and opened
it.

"Good morning, Mr. President," the man outside said cheerily, flashing
his famous grin. George Wong immediately recognized Al Grimm, the man
who had been personal secretary to sixty-three Presidents. He was one
of the vast army of civil servants who kept the wheels of government
turning smoothly until Presidents were able to make the decisions
that would create policy.

"Good morning, Al," George Wong said. "I am afraid I'll have to place
myself completely in your hands for these first few days. Do we go to
the Executive Mansion for the inauguration now?"

"Yes, sir. Then, after your inauguration, to the office. Messages of
condolence have been pouring in all night, but I don't think you want
to bother with them. However, I am afraid we will have to bring up
some of the problems that have arisen in the two weeks since President
Reynolds left office."

"How is he?" Wong asked. "I knew him, you know. He taught at Venus
University at the same time I did. He was a fine man."

"I'm afraid he's no better," Al said, shaking his head. "We're doing
all we can for him, but he won't even speak to his wife. You know how
difficult it is."

"Yes, I know," Wong said.

They rode downstairs in silence and walked to the Presidential Copter
parked in the street in front of the house. A few guards loitered in
the vicinity, but there were no crowds. They entered the plush copter,
which rose smoothly under its whirling blades and carried them over
the city, landing finally on the lawn of the Executive Mansion.

Chief Justice Herz met them, dressed in a blue business suit, and
after they shook hands he administered the oath.

"Do you, George Wong," he asked, "swear to make every decision you are
asked to make as President of the Solar Union for the benefit of the
people of the Union and in accord with what you believe to be fair and
just, fully cognizant of the fact that the welfare of seventy-five
billion citizens of the Union is dependent on you?"

"I do," George Wong said, through a painfully dry throat that would
barely permit the words to come out.

       *       *       *       *       *

They all shook hands again. Then Al Grimm led the President across the
grassy lawn, into the mansion, and up to the office that had served
over a thousand Presidents. Wong entered it nervously. It was a large
plain room, severely decorated. Tentatively, he slid into the chair
behind the huge steel desk, and began opening the drawers. He found
them fully stocked with tapes, a recorder, all the other necessities.
The desk and everything else in the room was brand new. There was no
trace anywhere of his predecessors, and he was relieved to find it so.
The Psychology Department at work, he thought.

"While we are moving your effects into the living quarters, Mr.
President," Al said from the doorway, "I wonder if we could start
discussing the problem of the Gnii ... their Ambassadors have
presented an ultimatum, and they demand an answer today."

       *       *       *       *       *

So soon, President Wong thought. Couldn't he have just a few hours to
get used to his office, to wander through the building, to explore the
green garden that he could see from his barred window stretching out
behind the mansion?

For a second, he almost rebelled; but even as he thought of answering
no, he realized that he never would. The Psych Agents had measured his
Responsibility Quotient at 9.6, and they didn't make mistakes.

"Of course," he answered with forced enthusiasm. "Who do you suggest I
discuss the matter with? For that matter, who are the Gnii?"

"I have the Manager of Defense, the Manager of Trade, and the Manager
of Foreign Affairs waiting in the anteroom. With your permission, I'll
call them in and they'll explain the problem. But first, if you would
sign this order ... it has already been approved by President Reynolds
and by all of the Managers concerned."

President Wong took the paper. It was an order sending a space
platoon, 5,000 warships and 500,000 men, to the system of Altair A, to
place themselves under the command of the Grasvian fleet for an attack
against the system of Altair D.

The President frowned. "What's the story behind this?"

"As you know," Al explained patiently, "there is an unwritten
agreement throughout the Galaxy that if any system conquers too many
other systems, an intersystem police force is formed to cut the
conqueror down. Since for all practical purposes, there is an infinity
of systems in the Galaxy, and as each conqueror borders on more and
more of them as he grows larger in three-dimensional expansion, unlike
the one-dimensional conquests that used to occur on the surface of
planets, conquest of the Galaxy is an obvious impossibility. However,
the inhabitants of Altair D seem to have embarked on a policy of
reckless expansion that could reach us in time."

"I see," President Wong said. "How far away are they?"

"It will take the platoon sixteen years to get to the rendezvous. They
will remain for ten years, then return. Because of the distance, we
are not expected to send more than this token force."

       *       *       *       *       *

President Wong looked at the order. It had already been signed by
President Reynolds, by the Managers of Defense and of Foreign Affairs.
After all, even though forty-two years was a long period of time to
chop out of a man's life, only 500,000 men were involved, and it was
the duty of every citizen to give his life for his planet if required.

With an impatient motion, he rolled his thumbprint in the soft plastic
signature space, and held it for a second as it hardened. Then he
threw the order into a basket labeled OUTGOING CORRESPONDENCE.

His first official duty completed, he should have felt exhilarated;
but instead, nagging thoughts of guilt tugged at his brain.

Who were the inhabitants of Altair D, anyway? How did he know that the
police action was just? Shouldn't he get out the whole file and go
over it?

But that would take days ... and there was the matter of the Gnii,
whoever they were.

The three managers entered. President Wong stood up and shook hands
with them. They didn't waste time on other preliminaries, but rushed
straight into business.

"The Gnii," the Manager of Trade, a large, red-faced man said, "demand
that we remove our trading planetoid from their system. They allege
that the planetoid is a security risk, in that it could be used for
remote-control bombing of any of their planets. They threaten that if
we don't remove it voluntarily, they will attack it, and their
Ambassadors are here in person to take our reply to their ultimatum."

There was nothing unusual in that, President Wong knew. Since both
spaceships and any other known means of communication traveled at the
speed of light, it was now more common to send Ambassadors on
important missions than to send messages.

"What do you think we should do?" President Wong asked the Manager of
Trade.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I think we should tell them to go to hell," the Manager of Trade
replied, his heavy face turning redder. "After all, we have a million
trading planetoids out in the Galaxy--if we retreat here, we set a
dangerous precedent."

"I see," Wong said, frowning. "I don't recall any alien trading
planetoids in _our_ system."

"Of course not, Mr. President," said the Manager Of Foreign Affairs, a
tall, lean, distinguished-looking gentleman with blue eyes and
iron-gray hair. "We don't permit them, for much the same reason that
the Gnii want them removed from their system. Trading planetoids are
usually only tolerated in backward systems. Apparently the Gnii no
longer desire to be considered backward. I, for one, think that we
would be making a mistake not to accede to their request."

"Oh, that's very fine, decent, sporting and all that," the Manager of
Trade said irritatedly. "But I have to worry about feeding this
overpopulated system of ours, which would starve if it weren't for
intersystem trade--a significant part of which is carried on through
the planetoids."

"Can we protect the threatened planetoid?" President Wong asked the
Manager of Defense, a short, slim black man with flaming red hair.

The Manager of Defense considered his reply carefully. "Not if they
are willing to pay a terrific price to destroy it," he said finally.
"After all, it's thirty-three years away. While we can send out a
fleet immediately that would get there at the same time as the
Ambassadors, and before they could mount an attack, we hardly could
send reinforcements and replacements once the battle is joined. But
from the best information available, I think that a small force of
twenty or twenty-five thousand troops should be able to frighten the
Gnii out of doing anything foolish. They aren't very far advanced."

"Thirty-three years," President Wong said frowning. "That means a
mixed crew with facilities for children. I am told that things often
go wrong on that type of mission."

The Manager of Defense nodded. "They do," he agreed shortly. "However,
I have analyzed that problem in detail in my report."

President Wong sighed. "If you gentlemen will leave your reports with
me, I will make my decision by tomorrow morning."

Each of the Managers gave him several rolls of tape. Those of the
Manager of Trade felt by far the heaviest. President Wong slipped them
into the racks in his upper left-hand desk drawer.

"Ask the Gnii to come in," he said to Al.

       *       *       *       *       *

Al pushed a button on the arm of his chair, and the door swung open.
Four large spidery creatures entered the room, followed by a small
bald man. Their round bodies were encased in plastic globes, in which
a whitish translucent gas swirled. They walked over to the President's
desk, and the leader extended a hairy leg.

With an effort, President Wong forced himself to take the leg with his
hand and pump it up and down. He noticed that the creature withdrew
the leg as soon as it was decently possible, and smiled a bit as he
concluded that their aversion was mutual.

The Gnii stepped back and began waving his two front legs.

"He is asking for your reply to his ultimatum," the small bald man
interpreted.

"Tell him I'll give him a definite decision tomorrow," President Wong
said. "Apologize for my not being able to reply today, and point out
that since it will take him thirty-three years to get home, one day
will not make much difference."

[Illustration]

The bald interpreter waved his hands. The four Gnii went into a small
huddle, waving their spidery legs at each other. Then the leader
turned to the interpreter again and "spoke."

"They say that they agree," the interpreter said. "But they want to
emphasize that it is not because they fear the power of the Solar
System."

The Gnii leader hesitated a moment, then extended his leg again.
President Wong pumped it once. The Gnii dropped his hand and turned
and left the room, with the three others and the interpreter filing
after him.

"If you don't need me any more," the Manager of Trade said, glancing
at his watch, "I'll go back to the Trade Bureau. I have a meeting with
a number of the department heads."

President Wong nodded tiredly. "I have the tapes. I'll study all your
positions tonight."

       *       *       *       *       *

The Manager of Trade and the Manager of Foreign Affairs rose and left
the room. The Manager of Defense stayed in his seat.

"If you feel up to it," Al said, "the Manager of Defense would
appreciate it if you would present a Presidential citation to the
remains of the Third Company. They were involved in a police action in
the system of Veganea, and their morale is shattered. As you know, the
award is traditional, as is the speech. Here's the text--all you need
do is read it."

"All right," President Wong said, taking the paper from Al's hand and
scanning it. There was only one paragraph.

The door opened and four old men entered, followed by an honor guard
of eight husky privates. They approached the desk and stood at
attention. President Wong looked up from the speech and felt a wave of
sudden nausea. For a second, he was afraid that he actually was going
to be sick. None of their old lined faces was complete. The worst
wounded had less than half a face, and that discolored by purple
blotches of radiation scar-tissue. He was blind, and the others
maneuvered him into position before the desk.

"For the heroic parts which you played in the Police Action against
Veganea--" Wong stumbled over the name, then continued hastily--"I,
the President of the Solar Union, hereby...."

"Rot," said the blind one, through toothless gums in a voice that was
only a hoarse whisper. "Tell me, do you know where Veganea is? Does
anyone on Earth know where Veganea is, or care? How many men, Mr.
President, how many men, young and healthy, left for that police
action? Do you know?" His hoarse voice rose. "Four came back ... but
can any of you gentlemen tell me _how many left_?"

"That's enough," the Manager of Defense said. At his signal, two of
the honor guards gently took hold of the veteran's arms and walked him
out of the room along with the others.

"I order that he not be punished," Wong said sharply.

"He won't be," the Manager of Defense said. "Do you take me for a
barbarian? I had hoped, though, that your interest might change their
attitude. As you can imagine, it's raising hell with the morale of the
recruits."

"By the way," the President asked, "where is Veganea, and how many men
_did_ we send there?"

"It's about twenty-four years away, near Vega. The action started
before my time and I don't know how many men were involved--probably
not more than a few million. The Police Action ended successfully, but
our ships were in the first wave and were wiped out."

       *       *       *       *       *

The President sat down wearily. His hand strayed over to the order he
had signed that morning for a police action, then drifted aimlessly
away.

"What's next?" he asked Al. He slipped a few energy pills into his
mouth as Al consulted his book.

"There's the matter of the conversion bomb," Al said. "The Manager of
Scientific Research and the Manager of Defense would like you to make
a decision about it."

"The conversion bomb?" President Wong said, puzzled. "I've never heard
of it."

"It is highest level top secret," the Manager of Defense explained.
"Instead of breaking down atoms and releasing some energy as in the
standard fission weapons, it converts matter entirely into energy.
Given the matter-energy equation, the energy released by a small
amount of matter is fantastic."

Al had risen and gone to the door. He returned with an old,
gray-haired, stoop-shouldered man. The President recognized the famous
Manager of Research.

The Manager launched immediately into his argument without
preliminaries. "Mr. President, while my department has finally found a
way to convert matter directly into energy, I believe that any use of
this process would be disastrous. First, there is absolutely no
safeguard that could prevent a matter-conversion powered machine, used
for peaceful purposes, from being changed into a lethal weapon by the
simplest of alterations. And as a weapon, the conversion bomb, unlike
atomic bombs, could not only destroy planets but stars with their
entire systems. We all know that the law of the Galaxy is to prevent
its domination by any one system--and given the distances and
populations involved, that domination is obviously impossible. But if
we began to construct conversion bombs, and if word of it got out, the
whole Galaxy would rise against us, all the way to the Edge."

"But, Mr. President," the Manager of Defense said calmly. "We are not
a unique people. If we do not produce the conversion bomb, you may
rest assured that someone else will. Maybe even our friends, the Gnii.
No system has ever saved itself by refusing to manufacture the best
weapons available to it. As for the Galaxy rising against us--if we
have the conversion bomb, let them! We will be able to defend
ourselves against any or all of them and blast their suns into novae."

"Until _they_ have the bomb," the Manager of Scientific Research
interrupted. "As you say, we are not a unique people."

"Gentlemen," the President said, standing up suddenly. "I feel tired
and dizzy. The idea of a bomb that can wipe out systems is new to me.
If you will leave your tapes, I will study your arguments tonight, and
we can resume this discussion tomorrow."

       *       *       *       *       *

The two Managers rose immediately, shook hands with the President, and
left. They did not speak to each other as they went through the door.

"Mr. President," Al said, "it's seven o'clock. Will you join me for
dinner, sir?"

President Wong slumped back into his seat and stared dully at Al, only
half noticing his friendly grin. "What would you do about the Gnii,
Al, if you were in my place?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, sir," Al said, "but I really don't know. Better come along
for some dinner. You've had a hard day, and you have a harder one
ahead of you tomorrow. We saved a number of difficult problems that we
didn't want to throw at you on your first day in office."

A ghost of a smile crept over the President's face, then disappeared
quickly. "It's all right, Al. Go ahead and eat. I think I'll just stay
here and go over these tapes."

As Al left, President Wong saw the order for the police action on his
desk. He picked it up to call Al to take it with him, but his eyes
caught the words _500,000 men_ ... _sixteen years_, and a picture of
the terribly wounded veterans flashed before his eyes. Really, he
would have to go through the files and find out if the expedition was
necessary....

He opened the left-hand desk drawer and stared at the Gnii tapes, but
he didn't take any of them out. It seemed like too much of an effort.

And then, the conversion bomb was so much more important.

He closed the first drawer and opened the one with the conversion bomb
tapes.

But the Gnii had to be answered tomorrow--the bomb could wait. He
slammed the drawer shut.

"Gnii," he muttered to himself, and opened the other drawer.

Then he noticed that he had put the police action order back into his
OUTGOING basket. He slammed the drawer with the Gnii tapes shut again
and opened the drawer below it and pushed the order inside, so that it
wouldn't be picked up by mistake before he could check on it.

"Five hundred thousand men in here," he said as he closed the drawer.
"Going to--"

Where were they supposed to go? He couldn't remember. He opened the
drawer again and looked at the order. To Altair D. The name had no
meaning for him.

Now, let's see ... oh, yes, the conversion bomb tape.

He opened the drawer to take out the tapes, and remembered that the
Gnii ultimatum had to be answered by tomorrow.

"Gnii, Gnu, Gnuts," he said, opening a drawer. It was the wrong one,
and the tapes weren't there. Which tapes?

The door opened, and President Wong looked up to see Al's smiling face
peering in.

"I was passing by, sir," Al said, "and I wondered if I couldn't talk
you into supper--"

"_Get out!_" the President shouted.

The door closed softly.

Now where was he?... Oh, yes, the conversion bomb. Conversion,
conversion, conversation, bomb, bomb, boom, _BOOM_. But that wasn't it
either--it was the Gnii, they had to be answered by tomorrow.... Gnii,
Gnii, Gnu, Gnuts, now in what drawer had he put the gnats? And why
order a police action against Gnats? Just convert every one of them
into spiders....

       *       *       *       *       *

Al walked slowly down the hall, his grin gone, his face looking washed
out. He turned into his own little office and snapped on the
communications video.

"First Vice-President Michael Thompson," he said to the operator.

In a moment Thompson appeared on the screen.

"Mr. First Vice-President," Al said in a tired voice, "may I suggest
that you remain in the Capital for the next few weeks?"

Even though he knew that it was not polite, Al snapped off the set
without waiting for a reply--but not before he caught the white and
frightened look on Thompson's face.

                                                          --STEPHEN ARR

       *       *       *       *       *