The Real Summit Drama

IF YOU HAD a nickel for every unsuccessful summit of recent years, you would have enough pinball money to play until the next unsuccessful summit. That would probably be a more productive way to spend your time than worrying why none of these superpower exchanges comes to anything.

But then, everyone loves fruitless speculation, especially when the mirage of hope glimmers on the horizon. After all, even the Red Sox can pull it off now and then. So when the mini-summit in Iceland between Reagan and Gorbachev was announced, a universal gasp of optimism went up: maybe this year something would actually happen.

So the freshly tanned American press community eagerly shuffled off through the metal detectors to Reykjavik. If anything went down, the press would be there to get photos. As the trample of journalistic feet covered the diminutive island nation--threatening to sink it to the seabed--editors around America slept contentedly. They knew that every walrus within a 50 mile radius could be on the front page within 24 hours.

Which presented something of a problem to my good friend and fellow parapsychologist, Rutger Fury. We not only feared upsetting the sensitive volcanoes under the island with two more pairs of boots, but also found that all the flights to Iceland were booked solid.

WE WERE NOT daunted. Rutger had been assigned by The National Enquirer to investigate an alleged Raisa Gorbachev-Yeti love baby. Neither cold of arctic night nor professional ethics would stay his appointed rounds. I followed, to aid him in danger, to comfort him in difficulty, and to recover the $100 he owed me.

As soon as we arrived it was apparent that not much was happening. Everywhere we looked, men with press cards in their hats slouched gloomily about. The only sign of activity was a reporter from USA Today, who was preparing a story: "Icelanders: `We Like Fish.'"

We had missed the show. In less time than it takes to stowaway on a herring boat, the mini-summit had come and gone. I was depressed. "Rutger," I said, "tell me. How could it end so quickly?"

But Rutger's attention had been diverted by a clump of coarse hair hanging from a thorny bush. Directly below it, a set of enormous footprints led off down the street. As we followed the trail Rutger pondered my question.

"The answer is simple," he said. "The problem of nuclear weapons is an extremely volatile issue. Months, at least, would have to be dedicated to lift the ominous curtain of world destruction."

"So why didn't they stay?"

"What--in Iceland? World-class leaders need their sunshine."