“We don’t need friendship and we can protect ourselves,” Tully replied.
“We will see that this matter gets to the proletariat of Grand Fenwick,” the Foreign Commissar stormed. “We will broadcast our offer by radio twenty-four hours a day so that everyone in the duchy knows that you and the other aristocrats here would condemn them to death rather than keep them free for all time by a pact of eternal friendship with the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”
“We haven’t any proletariat in Grand Fenwick,” Tully replied, quietly. “And we haven’t any radios either.”
This put a stop to the exchange for a while. Then Tully took the initiative. “I do not want to send you back empty-handed to Moscow,” he said. “I have a proposition to make which may well ensure peace for your country and for the world.” He outlined the plan for the outlawing of nuclear weapons and a system of international inspection.
“The Soviet Union,” the Foreign Commissar said, “has been from the start in the forefront of the movement to outlaw the atomic bomb and all such weapons. But we have insisted that, as a first step, all stocks of atomic bombs must be destroyed. To this the Americans have consistently refused to agree because their policy is one of world domination.”
“All stocks of bombs will be destroyed,” Tully said. “All except the Q-bomb. That will remain here as the trust of the League of Little Nations. It will represent the International Police Force which the United Nations agreed to set up, but never did.”
The Foreign Commissar laughed. “You expect us to render ourselves powerless so that you can dominate the world,” he said.
“We’re going to dominate the world all right whether you wish it or not,” said Tully, “but in the cause of peace. In fact, we dominate the world at present though you are a little slow in realizing it. If we exploded the Q-bomb now, thousands of people would be dying in Russia in six weeks. And there wouldn’t be anything you could do about it. Those who didn’t die would wish they were dead, for they would be doomed anyway. In the past two weeks Dr. Kokintz has been performing some experiments with the gas which this bomb will liberate. Perhaps you would like to see one of the surviving results.”
From behind a curtain in the chamber in which they were sitting, he brought a cage. Inside it there was some sort of moving thing. It had no head, but there was a mouth at one end with furry lips which kept opening and closing. There were six legs and some bare patches in the fur which showed a bright blue skin below.
“What is it?” the Foreign Commissar asked.
“It used to be a mouse,” Tully replied quietly. “The amount of carbon fourteen to which it was exposed was in the proportion of one part to one hundred thousand. The amount released by the bomb would produce a much greater concentration in the atmosphere. Chances of survival would be very small. But those who did survive, animal or human, would become some sort of monster such as this.”
The Soviet Commissar could not take his eyes off the thing in the cage. He fancied he heard some kind of squawking from it. The muscles of the body moved convulsively, and now and then one of the six feet twitched. “Tell me again the details of the plan for control of these weapons,” he said.
Tully did so.
“Do the Americans and British agree to it?” the Foreign Commissar asked.
“Yes.”
“The inspection will be by neutral scientists of the smaller nations?”
“Yes.”
“How are we to know that they will not pass on to the United States and Britain what they discover in our Soviet laboratories?”
“You will have to take our word for it. It is either that or this.” And he pointed to the cage.
The Soviet Commissar rose stiffly. “I shall report to Moscow,” he said. He gave one more frightened look at the thing and left.
When he had gone Dr. Kokintz came in, peering from behind his thick glasses. “Did it work?” he asked. “I think so,” Tully replied.
“Good,” said Dr. Kokintz. “Then I had better let them out.” He reached into the cage and took the thing out, flipped it over on its back and undid a zipper. Three frightened white mice scampered out, two of them crawling up his arms to crouch upon his shoulders. The thing collapsed into a mere sack of fur. “We used to play this kind of a trick on newcomers when I was a student of biology,” he said. “It is surprising what people will believe when their minds have been prepared to accept it.”
It was after these conferences with the ministers of the Big Three that the Tiny Twenty convened in the castle of Grand Fenwick. The countries represented were Lebanon, Israel, Ireland, Denmark, Iceland, Ecuador, Guatemala, Switzerland, Turkey, Greece, Lichtenstein, Finland, Portugal, Mexico, Saudi Arabia, Norway, Sweden, Belgium, Panama, and Grand Fenwick.
Because there was no possibility whatever of accommodating the delegates and their staffs in Grand Fenwick, it was agreed that they would all stay at Basle, Switzerland, and the Swiss Government proposed, setting the note for an amicable conference, that they be lodged and fed at Swiss expense. “Switzerland,” the Swiss minister said, when he made this offer to the assembly, “will be honoured to be the host to representatives of so many of her sister nations of equal size and weight in world affairs.”
The conference lasted only two days. The first day was taken up with the presentation and checking of credentials. On the second day, the general meeting being called to order, Gloriana XII was elected chairman, with the delegate for Ecuador, vice-chairman. The Turkish representative proposed that a committee to establish an agenda be appointed, but the representative from Ireland moved an amendment that there be no committee on agenda or any other kind of a committee.
“The big nations get together at these kind of conferences,” he said, in a rich brogue, “and it’s as plain as Paddy’s pig what they’re all going to talk about. But they have to slice the pig up into bacon, and divide it into hams, and pickle the feet and tan the hide before they can get down to the facts. And before they’re through with it everybody’s forgotten what they were going to talk about. Some that were on the ham committee think it’s the ham that is the most important part of the animal, and those on the bacon end of it swear that if it wasn’t for bacon it wouldn’t be any pig at all. And so they all go away without making any decisions.
“But we know what kind of a beast we have before us. We’re here to form a League of Little Nations to compel the Big Three or the Big Four or the Big Five or however many bigs they are to stop all their shenanigans and get rid of these bombs that will blow us all to bits at any minute. So I move that we don’t form any committee at all, or try slicing the pig up one way and another, but get down to business as we are.”
This thoroughly mixed illustration, delivered with some heat, led to a little confusion. But the delegate from Israel, who, as a matter of alphabetical accident, was seated next to the Irish minister, undertook to explain. And having explained, he seconded the motion and it was carried unanimously.
The delegate from Israel was a rabbi and the Irish minister turned to him in an aside and said, “It’s the first time that a Catholic nation has found itself indebted to the Jewish faith.”
To which the rabbi replied gently, “There was one other occasion. Christianity, you will recall, originated in Palestine.”
They both laughed.
The charter establishing the League of Little Nations was agreed on the same day. It had been prepared in draft in advance, and was, for such a historic document, an almost childishly simple statement, containing six main points.
There was no lengthy preamble. Instead it got immediately down to business.
It read:
The nations whose delegates have signed this document, subject to confirmation by their constitutional procedures, solemnly commit themselves to the following duties and courses of action:
1. They bind themselves together to enforce a world ban on weapons of mass destruction.
2. To achieve this they will set up, unde
r the initial direction of Dr. Frederick Kokintz, a committee of scientists who will inspect atomic and other nuclear installations of all kinds in all countries to ensure that no nuclear weapons are being made.
3. They will compel the nuclear nations and others to cooperate with this inspection under threat of detonating the Q-bomb now in the possession of the Duchy of Grand Fenwick.
4. This Q-bomb will be the trust of all the nations who ratify this agreement. They pledge themselves to guard it.
5. They will use all their powers of persuasion, whether moral, diplomatic, economic, or military to bring about a more peaceful world.
6. They will do all this in the solemn realization that unless it is done all are eventually doomed.
Nobody wanted to add anything to this document. Nobody wanted to subtract from it. They signed it with little more than a routine speech or two, and the next day its contents were publicized to the world.
Then the delegates of the Tiny Twenty went home. No date was set for their next meeting. Indeed the hope was expressed that they would never have to meet again. But it was agreed that, as a symbol of their solidarity, every month an honour guard of soldiers from a different nation would take over the job of guarding the frontier of Grand Fenwick with the bowmen of the duchy.
The same week the United States House of Representatives received a bill which would permit inspection by the Tiny Twenty of the nation’s atomic installations. Two weeks later the United States, Britain, Canada, and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics had agreed to dismantle their atomic arsenals. A month later teams of scientists from the Tiny Twenty were inspecting the nuclear installations of the Big Four Powers. The world, if not on the road to peace, at least was no longer on the highway to self-destruction.
CHAPTER XX
The Count of Mountjoy was feeling depressed and neglected. These were emotions quite foreign to him, for he was a man of distinguished position and bearing, if not of distinguished ability, and accustomed to being the centre of interest, of action, and of attention. His line, being of the noblest blood in Grand Fenwick next to the ruling family, had indeed supplied the diplomats and statesmen of the nation.
It was an ancestor of his, Count Robert of Mountjoy, who had negotiated the treaty of mutual assistance with England in 1402—a fact which he had been at pains to point out to the British Minister during the latter’s visit. To this, the British envoy had made the peculiar reply that in contrast with much that had happened recently, the treaty was a case, perhaps the only one on record, of too much and too early.
Another ancestor of the Count’s, Derek of Mountjoy, had achieved immortality by informing Napoleon, on the eve of Waterloo, that any further military adventures on the part of the Emperor in Europe would bring the double-headed eagle banner of Grand Fenwick into the fray on the side of England. The shock to Bonaparte’s morale on receipt of this letter—it had been delivered by a courier from Grand Fenwick—was credited in the duchy with having contributed to the Emperor’s defeat in that engagement.
With all this and much more in mind, the Count was conscious that, through no fault of his own, he was letting his ancestors down. In the past few months he had been in the very centre of events which had shaken the whole world—events which would not only be recorded in glorious pages in the history of Grand Fenwick, but in equally glorious pages in the history of every nation of the globe. And he sensed that when that history was written, there would hardly be as much as a footnote—at best a short paragraph, perhaps with his name misspelt—recording his own part in these great affairs. The trouble, he told himself, was that diplomacy had been taken out of the hands of those who by their birth and breeding were best suited for its intricacies, and handed over to uncultured and blunt fellows like Benter and that man Tully Bascomb. There were no niceties to the game anymore, no delicate balancing and weighing of situations, no exquisite pleasure in finding exactly the right words with which to promise everything and guarantee nothing, which were the very essence of diplomatic exchanges.
All that had happened was that that fellow Tully Bascomb had threatened to blow up the whole of Europe unless an effective agreement was concluded to outlaw weapons of mass destruction. The thing was done almost before he, the Count of Mountjoy, could take a hand. That it had been done, he had to concede, was good. But that it had been done in such a boorish manner, quite without any reference to the protocol of diplomatic exchanges, shocked him beyond expression.
To save face, to secure for himself an incontestable place in history when the whole matter was written up, he needed to execute one capital stroke that would show his true genius as a statesman. And he now knew exactly what this was to be.
It assuaged his stricken ego, to some extent, that the whole plan had come to him during an unofficial and unpremeditated conversation with one of the captive New York policemen, just before the latter had been released following the signing of the peace treaty with the United States. General Snippett and the four policemen were being led from the castle of Grand Fenwick to the border to be handed over to the American consul who awaited them there. The Count of Mountjoy accompanied the little procession, and on the way, one of the policemen, exuberant perhaps at the thought of returning to his native land, had said, “That Gloriana is some dish.”
“Precisely what do you mean by that?” the Count of Mountjoy had inquired.
“A cute patoot,” replied the policeman.
“I fail to follow,” said Mountjoy.
“Look, dad,” said the policeman, “it don’t matter to you now on account of your age and you probably got a wife and kids. But that Gloriana’s a knock-out. A real honey-bun. A Cadillac with sex appeal, if you get what I mean. And one of these days some lucky jerk is going to meet her and pitch her the woo, solid gold, see? And then your little Duchess’s new address will be maybe Fifth Avenue, New York, and maybe Beverly Hills, and maybe both.”
At this point the party reached the frontier and the handing over of the prisoners was effected. The Count of Mountjoy was not quite sure he understood all that the policeman had said. But he believed he got the gist of it. And the gist of it was frightening enough. It was to the effect that a rich American was likely to court the Duchess successfully, marry her, and with that, the whole succession to the ducal chair would be imperilled and the future of the duchy as an independent state placed in hazard.
All for which they had striven would then be lost, and that very night, such was the impact of this new line of thinking upon the Count, he had sought out both Dr. Kokintz and Mr. Benter and discussed the matter with them. A plan had been devised to avert the danger—a plan, he flattered himself, which had originated with him—and he was on his way to the Duchess now to secure her agreement to it.
Well enough, he told himself as he went for his audience, for others to hold the centre of the stage and receive the applause. But it is in the behind-the-scenes manipulation that the true genius of statecraft lies. And as he thought of this, and pictured himself as the man behind the scenes, manipulating matters of the greatest moment, he felt better and held his silvery head higher and fancied that if the spirit of Disraeli were anywhere near, it would certainly be smiling with approval. Disraeli was one of his heroes.
He found Gloriana eating pomegranates in her private study in the castle. She had eaten a great number of a large supply which the American Secretary of State had had flown to her, for the husks were lying on a silver dish on the table and there was quite a mound of them.
“Don’t scold, Bobo,” she said. “They’ll spoil if I don’t eat them all in a day or two. Besides, it relaxes my nerves. I’ve been upset lately with all the delegates from all the countries coming here and having to meet them. I like the man from Saudi Arabia best. He refused to bow to me. He said it was against his religion for a man to humble himself before a woman.”
“Before such a woman as Your Grace, the act of bowing, far from humbling, elevates a man,” the Count of Mountjoy replied.
“You’re such a nice person to have around, Bobo,” Gloriana said. “Sit down and talk to me.”
He did so, and so far unbent as to accept half a pomegranate, picking the ruby beads out of it delicately with finger and thumb. He did this for a minute or two, and then putting the husk on the silver platter, and readjusting his monocle, said, “Your Grace, I have served your father for twenty years and hope that it will be the will of God that I serve you for twenty more.”
“I hope so, too,” said Gloriana warily, for she knew that when the Count of Mountjoy talked of his loyalty there was some kind of scheme coming up.
“My family,” continued the Count, “has served the rulers of Grand Fenwick ever since the duchy was founded. You will recall, Your Grace, that my ancestor, Mortimer Persimmon, was squire to Sir Roger Fenwick. And it was after the storming of the mountain on which this castle stands, when he fought side by side with Sir Roger, that he was created Count, and in honour of the day given the title of Mountjoy.”
“Yes, I know that,” said Gloriana.
“And so, it is my dearest wish that the family of Mountjoy should continue to serve the descendants of Sir Roger for all time to come. And yet, this may not come to pass.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gloriana, in some dismay. “You’re not thinking of going away?”
“No, Your Grace. The failure would not lie in my family, but in yours.”
“In mine?” exclaimed Gloriana.
“Yes,” said Mountjoy. “In yours. The matter is a delicate one, but as the oldest of your counsellors, I beg leave to mention it. To come directly to the point, Your Grace is unmarried and so has no family. The line of Fenwick is in danger of extinction.”
Gloriana blushed. “I’m not ready to think of marriage,” she said. “Besides, there’s nobody I want to marry.” This latter statement was not true, for Gloriana knew perfectly well whom she wanted to marry.
The Mouse That Roared: eBook Edition (The Grand Fenwick Series 1) Page 17
