Outside, in the darkness, the Tri-Star’s engines were already whining, and she could see the last of the service vehicles driving away. She checked her watch. Maybe she should just forget the whole thing. She didn’t particularly like Peter anyway. If she hadn’t already told her friends that she was going to spend the week-end in the million-dollar vacation home of Senator Shearson Jones, and if she hadn’t been so worried about keeping herself up-to-date on the blight crisis, she would have gone back to her apartment and resigned herself to another Saturday and Sunday doing the same old things. Reading, drawing, watching TV.
She went to the window and stared out at the aeroplane. Most of the passengers were already in their seats, and she could see the stewardess counting heads for cocktails. Reflected in the dark glass, she could see her own face, too, like a silent and inquisitive stranger.
She heard someone talking in a loud, harsh voice, and she turned around. With relief, but with apprehension, too, she saw Peter hurrying along the carpeted corridor. He had to hurry because he was trying to keep up with one of the airline’s electric carts, on which in huge and weighty splendour sat Senator Shearson Jones, in a white suit as large as a circus marquee.
Peter gave Karen a quick half-smile when he saw her, and said, ‘Hi. You made it, then?’
Karen said, ‘Yes,’ but she was more interested in the spectacle of Shearson Jones easing his bulky body from the cart and waddling sweatily towards the gate. She felt as if she were in the presence of a political and physical phenomenon; a being who defied gravity and governments, both.
She didn’t think at first that Shearson had noticed her, but as they followed him down the walkway to the aeroplane, the senator said loudly, without turning around, ‘Who’s the girl, Peter?’
‘Karen Fortunoff,’ said Peter. ‘My head girl. Very efficient.’
‘Good,’ rumbled Shearson. ‘I like to have pretty girls around me. I congratulate your taste.’
Peter took Karen’s elbow as they boarded the plane. ‘See?’ he whispered. ‘He likes you.’
Karen gave him an uneasy grin. ‘As long as he doesn’t want me, I don’t mind.’
*
Dr Benson yawned as he walked along the corridor to his office in the Kansas Agricultural Research building. He could hear his telephone ringing but he wasn’t going to hurry. He was too tired after driving all the way back from the experimental agricultural station near Hays, and all he wanted now was a cup of hot coffee, a bath, and six hours’ sleep.
The phone was still ringing as he pushed open the door of his untidy office and threw his dogeared briefcase into a corner. He took off his car-coat, hung it up on the back of the door, and then shuffled through the heap of papers on his desk to see if the telephone was anywhere within easy reach. He found it at last, sniffed, and picked it up.
‘Yes?’ he asked, non-committally.
‘Is that Dr Nils Benson?’ asked an intent voice.
‘Who wants him?’
‘Professor Protter, from the Federal Agricultural Research laboratory in Washington.’
‘Oh, I see. Then this is he. How do you do, Professor. I’m glad you called.’
Professor Protter sounded anxious. ‘I’m glad you answered,’ he said. ‘I was just about to hang up.’
Dr Benson lifted his eyeglasses with his left hand and pinched the bridge of his nose to relieve the pressure of tiredness. ‘I went out to the state experimental farm at Garden City, and then over to the experimental agricultural station at Hays. It’s been a pretty exhausting couple of days. I only just walked into the office.’
‘Have your state research people found anything out?’
‘Not a lot,’ said Dr Benson. ‘But they confirmed the blight is a virus of some kind – which is what I originally guessed it to be. They’re running more tests over the weekend.’
‘Listen,’ said Professor Protter, ‘they’re absolutely right when they say it’s a virus. We took it to the chemical warfare people, and they identified it almost straight away as a new strain of Vorar D.’
‘Vorar D? I read about that. So, I wasn’t so far off target after all. I told one of our farmers here that the blight was probably started deliberately.’
‘I’m not hazarding any guesses about how it was started,’ said Professor Protter. ‘That’s up to the FBI. But I am worried about the lack of concrete help I’m getting from the Agriculture Committee in general and Senator Shearson Jones in particular.’
‘You’ve told Jones about Vorar D?’
‘Of course. I told him that the Pentagon have a suitable sterilising compound, too.’
‘And he didn’t seem interested?’
‘He wanted written reports, and tests on the sterilising compound, and God knows what. There’s no question at all that he’s trying to slow this whole thing down.’
‘Can you think of any reason why he should?’
‘Only one,’ said Professor Protter. ‘He’s opened this Blight Crisis Appeal for Kansas wheat farmers, as you obviously know. So far I think it’s brought in three or four million dollars, although the news tonight said he was aiming for a target of twenty-five million dollars or more. Now – I may be unjust in thinking this – but it occurs to me that if the government announces they’ve found a way to arrest the blight, then interest in compensating the poor unfortunate farmers is going to take a downward curve. It’s the same with the way that Jones keeps telling the media that the blights in other states apart from Kansas aren’t very serious. In my opinion, he’s trying to maintain a completely distorted impression of what’s going on, simply to rake in as much contribution money as he possibly can.’
Dr Benson threw a copy of the Kansas paper off his chair, and sat down. ‘That’s a pretty heavy accusation,’ he said. ‘Do you think you can substantiate it?’
‘I’m not interested in substantiating it right now,’ said Professor Protter. ‘All I’m interested in is getting through to the president, and making sure that production starts on sterilising compounds right away.’
‘Why don’t you make an announcement to the press? That’s what I always do when I want to tug a few executive earlobes.’
‘I’m not in a position to do that,’ said Professor Protter.
‘Why not? If you’re right, what can they do to you?’
‘Senator Jones can do a lot to me, and to my family. That’s why I’m sharing this information with you. I was wondering if you could leak the story for me – get things moving. You could always say that it was your own people in Kansas who had identified the virus.’
Dr Benson cleared his throat. ‘You want me to be the fall guy?’
‘You can call your research people – have them check on the virus. I can assure you that everything I’m telling you is true. Six CW experts can’t be wrong.’
‘Well…’ said Dr Benson.
‘It’s not just important,’ Professor Protter told him. ‘It’s crucial to the survival of this whole nation. I wouldn’t have asked you otherwise.’
‘All right, then,’ said Dr Benson. ‘I’ll call Mike Smith at the local radio station. He’s good on handling this kind of thing.’
‘I’m sure you won’t regret it,’ said Professor Protter.
‘No, Professor, I don’t think I will,’ Dr Benson told him. ‘If I’m going to go down, I might as well go down with all guns blazing.’
Dr Benson put the phone down, and rummaged around his room for his telephone directory. He was searching for the number of the Wichita news station when there was a light rapping sound at his door. He looked up, and there was a pretty red-headed woman in a grey raincoat, with a pocketbook under her arm. She smiled at him, and said, ‘Hi. Am I disturbing you?’
‘I, er – well, no, I don’t think so,’ said Dr Benson.
The woman stepped confidently into the office. ‘I was waiting for you to come back from Hays. I saw the light go on in your office so I came up. My name’s Della McIntosh, by the way. I’m the new projects m
anager for Shearson Jones’s Blight Crisis Appeal.’
Dr Benson shook her hand hesitantly. ‘That’s quite a coincidence,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been talking about the Blight Crisis Appeal to a colleague of mine.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Della, perching herself on the edge of Dr Benson’s desk, and giving him more of her warmest grin. ‘Was it anybody I know?’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so. You’re not an agronomist, are you?’
‘No, but I’m over the age of consent.’
Dr Benson let out a grunt of amusement. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ he asked. ‘Apart from ask your consent?’
‘I flew in from Washington yesterday,’ Della told him. ‘I spent last night looking over Mr Hardesty’s farm at South Burlington, and now I’m interested in talking to you. Have you discovered what causes the blight yet?’
‘No… not exactly. We’re still working on the theory that it might be a form of powdery mildew.’
‘I thought you believed it was a virus.’
‘Did Mr Hardesty tell you that? Oh, well, I was only generalising. It could be any one of a dozen things. It’s going to take our people at Hays and Garden City a long time to find out which.’
Della stood up. ‘We’re sending out a television statement on Sunday evening from Senator Jones’s home at Fall River. If you can spare me an hour or so, I was wondering if you could give me some scientific background. We want to make it all sound authentic.’
‘Well, er – I have a quick call to make – then maybe I can spare you a little time. Would you excuse me for just a minute or two? You could sit in my secretary’s office across the hall.’
‘Sure,’ smiled Della, and stepped out of the office, closing the door behind her. She quickly crossed the corridor to the office marked ‘Enquiries’, switched on the light, and went across to the grey steel desk. The tell-tale light on the telephone was already lit up, so she carefully lifted the receiver, and listened in.
‘—called me urgently and confidentially, and said that the Pentagon’s chemical warfare people had identified it as Vorar D – that’s right – well they used to use it for defoliation work in Vietnam – but he doesn’t want to leak the story himself – no – well, as far as I understand it, Senator Jones can put some sort of a squeeze on his family – that’s right—’
When the light blinked off again, Della quietly replaced the receiver, and tippy-toed across to the window. By the time Dr Benson came in, shrugging on his car-coat again, she appeared to be absent-mindedly staring out at the light of Wichita’s Civic Centre.
‘I thought we’d go down to the coffee shop,’ said Dr Benson. ‘I haven’t eaten in hours.’
‘Personally, I could do with a drink,’ smiled Della. ‘Is there a good cocktail bar near here?’
‘Well, I guess so – but the truth is I don’t usually—’
Della linked her arm in his. ‘Oh, come on. Surely work’s over for the day, even for you busy agricultural scientists.’ Dr Benson shrugged. ‘I guess I’m all right as long as I stick to Coke.’
‘Coke?’ asked Della, as they walked along the corridor to the elevator. ‘What kind of a scientist drinks Coke?’
Dr Benson didn’t answer, but pulled her an uncomfortable smile as they descended to the lobby. Della cuddled his arm, as if he was an affectionate old white-haired sugar-daddy, and when the security guard opened the downstairs door for them and let them out into the cool night air, he gave Dr Benson such a significant wink that Dr Benson felt like Humbert Humbert on his night off.
‘Is that the bar?’ asked Della, looking across the neon-lit plaza. ‘The Silver Star?’
‘That’s the bar,’ said Dr Benson, in a resigned voice.
*
The rented chauffeur-driven Lincoln Continental skirted the trees on the southern side of Fall River Lake and came out at last into a clearing. The driver had done this run before, and he turned up the driveway which led to Shearson Jones’s house without having to be directed. He stopped at the white-painted wrought-iron gates, let down his window, and said, ‘Senator Jones and party,’ into the driveside microphone. There was a pause, then a click and a hum, and the gates swung open.
Sitting in one of the jump seats, Karen couldn’t see the house very well until the chauffeur turned the Lincoln around on the gravelled front apron, applied the brake, and opened the door for her. When she climbed out, though, and stood waiting for Peter and Senator Jones in the wind that blew off the lake, she realised just how much one and a half million dollars could buy, especially out in rural Kansas.
Lake Vista – a name which one of Shearson’s mistresses had chosen – was a modernistic two-story house built out of natural stone, timber and glass. It was set in the rock overlooking the lake, with two balconies actually overhanging the dark and glittering water. But its most striking feature was the triangular timber roof which rose from the centre of the house like a stylised Indian tepee. Shearson kept at Lake Vista one of the country’s most valuable and important private collections of primitive Indian art, including a Pottawatomie painting on buffalo hide that had been valued at six million dollars.
‘Quite a place, huh?’ asked Peter, taking Karen’s arm and leading her towards the front door. ‘You wait until you see the inside.’
‘It’s unbelievable,’ said Karen. ‘It’s just like something out of the movies.’
The featureless wooden front doors of the house opened up, and two tall blue-jawed men in plaid shirts and mushroom-coloured stetson hats came out to help Senator Jones across the gravel. One of them tipped his hat to Karen and said, ‘How are you?’
‘They’re the Muldoon brothers,’ explained Peter, leading Karen up the steps and into the polished wood hallway. ‘They used to work a farm in Elk county, until they were bought out by an oil company. They’re pretty wealthy in their own right, but for some reason they’ve always attached themselves to Shearson as unpaid side-kicks. Don’t ever ask me why. You’ll have to find out for yourself.’
The inside of Shearson’s house was even more spectacular than the outside. The interior of the pointed wooden roof was lined with zig-zag galleried steps, so that a visitor could climb upwards from level to level, admiring Shearson’s Indian paintings and artifacts all the way up to the very tip of the house. Under the stressed-concrete beams which supported the ‘tepee’, there was a spacious conversation area; and off to the left, towards the lake, there was a sitting-room with Cherokee rugs and leather furniture and genuine Canadian totem poles.
‘I’m impressed,’ said Karen.
Behind her, the Muldoon brothers were almost carrying Shearson into the house. Grimacing, they supported him through the doors, across the conversation area, and into the sitting-room, so that they could deposit him at last in a sturdy studded library chair, with a view through the sliding-glass windows of the darkling lake.
‘Travel grows less and less desirable every day,’ grumbled Shearson. ‘Did Della get here yet?’
‘She called and left a message,’ said one of the Muldoon brothers. ‘She said she was talking to someone called Dr Benson at the Silver Star cocktail bar in Wichita, and that she didn’t expect to be late. Things were going just fine, she said.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Shearson. ‘Now, will one of you boys bring me a bottle of champagne, and some glasses? I think we ought to celebrate our safe arrival.’
Peter nudged Karen towards a large couch, covered in rough-brushed hide. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘The senator won’t eat you. Will you. Senator?’
Senator Jones took out a large linen handkerchief and mopped sweat from his face and his jowls. ‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘I’m so damned hungry I could eat anything, and she looks pretty tasty.’
*
It didn’t take Ed long to find them. The security guard at the agricultural research centre had seen them leave the building, and walk across the plaza towards the Silver Star bar. When he pushed his way through the Dodge C
ity-style doors, he saw them at once. Dr Benson with his white-haired head in his hands, Della with her arm around him, and Mike Smith from the radio station, short and crewcut and stubby, standing beside them with a helpless look on his face.
Ed crossed the bar and laid both of his hands on Dr Benson’s back. ‘Dr Benson?’ he said. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Drunk,’ said Dr Benson.
Ed looked at Della with an expression like cracked ice. ‘Did you bring him in here?’ he demanded.
Della said, ‘He wanted to come. He said he felt like a drink.’
‘Goddamit, you knew he was an alcoholic!’
‘How was I supposed to know that?’ asked Della. ‘I’ve never met him before in my life. All I wanted to do was talk about the blight, and all he wanted to do was drink. Is that my fault?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ed said, bitterly.
‘He called me,’ said Mike Smith. ‘He said he had some news about the blight.’
‘Did he tell you what it was?’ asked Ed.
‘Well, he did,’ said Mike. ‘But I’m not sure what I’m supposed to believe now. I mean, the guy’s stewed. Whatever he says, it isn’t going to make a lot of sense.’
‘It’s a virush,’ said Dr Benson, rearing up from his barstool.
‘You see what I mean?’ put in Mike Smith. ‘It just doesn’t make sense.’
‘It’s a virush,’ insisted Dr Benson. ‘A damned terrible virush I can’t remember the name of. Vorar D. That’sh it. Vorar D. You look it up. Vorar D.’
‘That’s what he told me on the phone,’ said Mike Smith. ‘He said that somebody called Professor Protter in Washington had called him up, and spilled the beans on the whole blight situation. The blight was caused by some virus called Vorar D, some kind of defoliant they developed for Vietnam.’
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