No nukes, said one side. No nukes, said the other. Parity, wrote each member of the two delegations on his note-pad. Complete parity. But in secret each side wished singular strength for itself and the power to outlive, at least for eternity. And it was the intensity of the thoughts of both that made strange things happen. The tables rose a little into the air and floated out of the door which opened to let them pass, and the guards outside though alert did not see them go. Then the chairs went. And the white deep plush carpet turned liquid and choppy and began to surge and rise and the two delegations also rose with the rising sea and found themselves walking on water.
The churning of the milk ocean was about to begin. How shall we do it, called out the red-headed side, for they were split into two parts. Let's get a mountain for the job, said the blue-suited ones. And they went out hunting for a tall conical mountain and carrying it at an extravagant cost to that milky sea up-ended it. We'll bring the serpent for the churning rope said the reds and they did. A long, thick, sinuous, living serpent with green scales which they wound round the mountain and the blues got hold of the head and waited for the reds to catch hold of the tail to begin to churn.
No, said the reds. We want the head. And the blues gave it to them and then the churning began. First the many aquatic creatures living in that sea floated to the top like froth in a pail of milk. Next a cow with heavy udders. Give it to us, said the farm lobby watching the undertaking from the shore. Give it to us. The wishing cow of eternal Grade A USDA certified. We'll milk it. Then came a white horse, beautiful and fleet. The fastest in the world. The reds took that. The blues got a huge white elephant, stately as a mountain and with four tusks. And so it went. Each side churning the treasures that like butter at a churning floated up from the milk-white ocean. There was an immense diamond, the Hill of Light. There was a fabulous tree under whose shade a traveler could wish for anything in the world and have it granted. There was a slinky dame, slightly drunk, who carried a flask of wine — the world's first — that the reds grabbed. All manner of goods the milk-white ocean threw up at its churning. Even pure, unadulterated evil in the form of a noxious black cloud whose spreading spumes of poison made the two sides fall back with parched throats and swollen tongues.
It was at this point that an ascetic appeared on the near shore of that sea. The longhaired, pale, intense, starving kind. As the gas drifted in a single narrow stream he opened his mouth and the gas entered, condensed itself into a liquid and poured down his throat, blue. A few droplets fell to the ground turning the plants that they touched into the belladonna and other deadly species. The poet shook his head grimacing with the awful taste and a few more droplets fell out. The curious lowly creatures that crawled to investigate the fluid were turned into deadly scorpions and tarantulas; the reptiles into Russell's vipers and cobras.
At last, shimmering like the morning, arose a golden ewer filled with nectar of immortality. And the dream ended. The red beards and the blue suits were back at the conference table. The red beards had the flask of nectar. But all was not ended. Mohini entered the room, her hips swaying under the thin white silk, her long luscious thighs pressing forward with each step. Her eyes taking in the room full of men stunned into silence and lust by her presence. The red beards were nearest the door and Mohini strolling serenely by each one of the seated delegates walked to the leader and leaning against his shoulder, her heavy bosom merely grazing his back, she reached for the flask. No one objected. No one wanted to be the first to call out rudely to the majestic Mohini. Infatuated by her pale golden skin, by her feminine lustrousness, by her ears perfectly matched and hung with rubies set in gold, they watched. They sat mesmerized by the chinkle of the gold bracelets on her wrists and the echoing chime of the anklets on her feet each time she took a step. Her necklace of large, heavy pearls grazed the cheek of the leader of the blues as Mohini placed the flask before him. It was as if all the members of the summit meeting had lost their senses to her bewitching smile, to the golden down on her shapely arms, to the neck so smooth beneath her braids. It was when Mohini left the room pulling the door gently to that all hell broke loose. But it was too late, the blues had the nectar.
That night television commentators for the rival side reporting on the day's events informed their viewers that a beginning had been made towards universal peace. A goddess, they said, had made an appearance at the bargaining table. She had brought peace in a pitcher of gold. "The blues have it now," they said. But for how long? "This issue," reported a bold, fair-haired, young man breathlessly, "is not settled. Discussions and meetings will be held for a long time to come. We shall be in our rocking chairs and our grandsons here covering the same meeting."
"Who shall win the precious peace pitcher?" asked a newsmagazine in high rhetoric. And then answered itself: "Only time will tell." Of course. But none of them knew of the churning of the milk ocean.
