Green Grow the Dollars

by Emma Lathen

  The town proper was little more than a general straggle of nondescript buildings surrounding the one-block Main Street with the usual rural landmarks: two gas stations, a drugstore selling souvenirs and, behind a curtained front window, Estelle’s Home Cooking.

  Two miles south things began looking up. First came a strip with motels offering swimming pools for the tourist and Lotus Lounges for the businessman. Beyond that was open country, with distant views of residences far too substantial to be mistaken for farmhouses.

  Finally, under an arch still reading Vandam Nursery & Seed Company, appeared the home office, its architecture suspiciously similar to the mansions past which Thatcher and Sanders had been sweeping.

  Vandamia, in sum, was a Grand Duchy set down in the corn and soybean belt of southern Illinois. The reigning Grand Duke had no time for pomp or circumstance.

  “Thank God you finally got here,” said Dick Vandam, meeting Sanders and Thatcher at the reception desk. “They’re upstairs already.”

  The list of participants in this ill-omened summit, as furnished by Sanders on the flight from Chicago, was lengthy. But Thatcher knew who they must be and, once they reached Vandam’s spacious office, had no difficulty identifying Paul Jackson’s clients. The Vandam lawyers wore the tight expression of their kind. Both Ned Ackerman and Scott Wenzel were completely at ease.

  In fact, himself apart, they were the only ones present of whom this could be said. Dick Vandam was holding himself in check by maintaining a rigid silence that spoke louder than words. Sanders’ edginess took an even more unfortunate form.

  “You mean you didn’t bring your lawyer along with you?” he said solicitously. “Of course, it’s your decision, but I’m not sure it’s wise. We certainly don’t want you thinking we’ve taken advantage of you.”

  This impersonation of guide, philosopher and friend got the reception it deserved.

  “You won’t,” Scott Wenzel told him coolly.

  If the opening was inauspicious, what followed was worse. Sanders, ignoring Wenzel’s remark and a sardonic glance from Dick Vandam, persisted with soft talk. “When we lay everything out, I’m sure we’ll find that we all want the same thing. And that is an orderly and profitable exploitation of Numero Uno. Now, unfortunately, it is true that Vandam’s and Wisconsin Seedsmen have this disagreement about patent rights, but that really doesn’t affect the basic issues.”

  This time it was Ackerman who humored him. “It doesn’t?” he asked politely.

  “Certainly not,” Sanders plowed on. “Let’s take a look at the fundamentals. Now, we all know this tomato is going to revolutionize American agriculture, and gardening and food processing. You’ll have to agree that the only way to handle it is with a major sales and distribution operation. Vandam’s has just that. So, it makes good sense to go ahead as planned, put the revenues into an escrow account, then let the courts decide how to divvy the pot. That way, we all get the advantages of—”

  “No.”

  Thatcher was beginning to think that Wenzel was a man of few, if pithy, words when the young geneticist continued, “Look, you’re wasting time and effort. There’s no way anybody is going to distribute my VR-117, anybody but Wisconsin Seedsmen. And that’s that.”

  “Vandam’s,” Dick Vandam promptly countered, “will market Numero Uno, which was developed under Vandam auspices and is solely owned by Vandam’s—as the Patent Office will certainly judge and, if not them, the appeals court.”

  Deadlock, and in record time, Thatcher reflected. Naturally Earl Sanders and the assorted legal talent were not similarly impressed. For a full hour they argued, cajoled and threatened to no avail. Wenzel and Ackerman treated most of the suggestions that came their way as a joke. Dick Vandam was also adamant, though giving no indication of suppressed amusement.

  As Thatcher had foreseen, the shadowboxing finally embroiled him. Vandam’s lawyer, Arthur Bixby, repeated his main point. “Look, Wisconsin Seedsmen is simply not equipped for the Numero Uno avalanche. You won’t be able to handle the orders because you haven’t got the capacity, and you won’t be able to develop it. You don’t have sufficient financial backing.”

  “Hold it,” said Ned Ackerman placidly. “We might as well clear that up right away. I’ve been talking to money sources in Madison, and in Chicago too. As soon as we get clear title, they’ll be standing in line. You’re the ones who brought a banker along. Ask him.”

  He delivered this advice with a friendly nod in Thatcher’s direction.

  There was only one thing any representative of the Sloan Guaranty Trust could say. “I agree that undisputed legal ownership of the patent would make Wisconsin Seedsmen attractive to many financial institutions,” Thatcher said judiciously.

  For a brief moment, it looked to him as if Dick Vandam and Earl Sanders intended to quarrel with this temperate description of how the real world works.

  Art Bixby, however, was determined to finish his argument. “All a patent does is buy you lead time over the competition. Now, we’re all reasonable men,” he said winningly. “We all know Numero Uno will be displaced by something better within five years. Two years wasted in court—and whoever ends up with the patent has lost forty percent of its value.”

  Percentages did not frighten Ackerman either.

  “I guess we’ll just have to grin and bear it,” he said unmoved.

  Before his underlying assumption could be challenged, there was an interruption that enlarged the cast of characters.

  Jason Ingersoll led the way. “I don’t know how many of you already know Dr. Pendleton, and Mrs. Pendleton,” he said smoothly, presenting his companions. “They’re from the Institute of Plant Research in Puerto Rico. And Dr. Eric Most, here, is Dr. Pendleton’s assistant.”

  As he spoke, there was a balletic regrouping, with the lawyers drawing back and the newcomers taking front and center. All was courtesy until Scott Wenzel bestirred himself.

  “Jesus!” he exploded. “Are they sucking you into this fast one of theirs, Howard?”

  Sputtering protests arose from every corner. Howard Pendleton had no trouble quelling them. “Hold it, Dick,” he said calmly. “All right, Jason, I can handle this. Scotty, nobody’s sucking me into anything.” He paused to emphasize his next words. “IPR developed the Numero Uno tomato for Vandam’s.”

  Eric Most almost stepped on his line. “And,” he said heatedly, “we’ve got all the lab notes to prove it, and Vandam’s field test records too.”

  Wenzel, staring at Pendleton, ignored Most. It was plain that this was the first he had heard of IPR’s role in Numero Uno but, to Thatcher at least, he looked more puzzled than troubled.

  Ned Ackerman, however, scented danger. “You think it’s going to help your case?” he said, addressing the Vandams impartially. “Claiming that it was IPR, not Vandam’s? Take it from me, it’s not going to do you one damn bit of good.”

  Now he sounded as placid as a baited bear.

  “Look here, Ackerman,” Vandam began forcefully.

  Jason Ingersoll spoke right over his uncle. “I don’t care for that implication, Ackerman. After discussions about the feasibility of a biennial tomato, R&D agreed to fund Dr. Pendleton’s research. It was a perfectly standard procedure, and you know it. I seem to remember Wenzel himself begging for funding from Vandam’s once upon a time.”

  His final sentence was a mistake.

  “Sure, it’s standard,” Wenzel said unpleasantly. “But Howard, you should have been leery of dealing with an outfit like Vandam’s. Did they say the stuff they passed on to you was the product of their own research, or did they just gloss over everything? I suppose even this bunch would hesitate to admit that they stole my work outright.”

  “Oh, dear,” said a voice in Thatcher’s ear. Mrs. Pendleton, seated next to him, was watching Wenzel and Ingersoll snarl at each other. “This is no time for Scotty to lose his temper. He’s going to get wilder and wilder—and drive everybody else wild, too.”

  “Y
ou have to admit that Ingersoll set him off,” said Thatcher.

  “Ye-es,” she said.

  Her husband took a more dispassionate stance. “Talking nonsense isn’t going to help any of us,” he said firmly. Then, with a deprecating smile, he added, “Your trouble has always been jumping to conclusions, Scott. Why don’t we wait until we have some facts—”

  “I’ve got all the facts I need, Howard,” said Wenzel, still glaring at Ingersoll. “Do you?”

  Pendleton shook his head in resignation. “You don’t change, Scott.”

  “They don’t look as if they’re coming to blows,” Thatcher remarked to Mrs. Pendleton.

  “You mean Howard and Scotty?” she asked. “Oh, Howard may think Scotty’s too brash and Scotty thinks Howard is old hat, but they get along. It’s not Howard I’m worried about. It’s the rest of them. They’re not used to Scotty.” After a pause, she added fair-mindedly, “And Scotty’s not used to them.”

  It was an idiosyncratic view, but Thatcher saw what she meant. Pendleton and Scott Wenzel could spar without bitterness. It was the seconds who were out for blood.

  Taking advantage of a lull in the hostilities, one of the lawyers tried to retrieve the irretrievable. “What we seem to have here is a situation where two laboratories, following similar lines of research, have approximated the same results. The best approach is to let the courts decide that issue. But in the meantime, we could concentrate on some practical details.”

  “What practical details did you have in mind?” asked Ned Ackerman with swift suspicion.

  At issue was the unveiling of Numero Uno at the meetings of the American Society of Plant Sciences, in Chicago. Could it be shown, and under what name? Vexed and knotty though this problem was, it was of no interest to John Thatcher. So, while the negotiations proceeded, he withdrew his immediate attention from the substance of the drama to its players.

  Contrasts abounded. In the younger generation, a cursory glance would seem to pit Jason Ingersoll against Scott Wenzel. Style and status obviously informed their open antagonism. But, Thatcher could not help noticing, Wenzel was even more hostile to Eric Most. His remarks to Ingersoll were deliberately insolent, those to Most were contemptuous.

  Their elders also constituted an instructive study. Dick Vandam was perhaps the easiest to read. He remained what he was, determined to take on all comers, including, Thatcher guessed, members of his own family. Ackerman and Dr. Pendleton, on the other hand, were more complex. Superficially, the two were affable and open-minded. Underneath, Thatcher suspected, they were both iron.

  Odd man out, in more ways than one, was Mrs. Pendleton. She was not only outspoken but, as Thatcher learned in the course of conversation, a distinguished plant geneticist in her own right.

  “No, I haven’t done any work on tomatoes, thank God,” she said, watching the roiling controversy. “My field has always been flowers. I’m just along for moral support, not that Howard needs it. The one who did the bottle washing for him was Eric.” She sighed as a particularly sharp remark by Wenzel set off a buzz of response. “Honestly, my heart sinks when I think of Chicago.”

  “You mean, this difficulty about displaying Numero Uno?”

  ‘That,” she said frankly, “is the tip of the iceberg. Once word gets around that Scotty is suing Vandam’s—well, I only wish that—” Whatever she wished remained unspoken, for some sort of limited consensus had been reached in the main ring.

  “Okay,” said Ackerman, stubbing out his cigar. “We all agree to waive any public claims for the duration of the convention.”

  Eric Most set his prominent jaw. “I still think that’s a mistake.”

  “Who cares?” said Wenzel.

  Nobody paid Most the slightest attention.

  Still, the meeting of minds was too insubstantial to satisfy Earl Sanders. “We’d hoped we could do better than this,” he said fretfully. “It looks as if we brought you down here for nothing.”

  Ackerman saw an advantage, and took it. “Oh, it wasn’t for nothing,” he told Sanders. “We’ve met each other now, and I figure that Standard Foods and Wisconsin Seed are going to be doing a lot of business with each other. In the not-too-distant future.”

  On this valedictory, he detached Scott Wenzel from his private conversation with the Pendletons and sailed out.

  Ingersoll shed some of his suavity the minute the door shut. “That cocky son of a bitch,” he said venomously. “They’re riding for a big fall, aren’t they, Howard? Once you get all your expert witnesses lined up, and they get a crack at this stuff of yours versus Wenzel’s—hell, it’s going to prove without a shadow of a doubt who developed Numero Uno, isn’t it?”

  It was Eric Most who answered him.

  “It certainly will,” he promised. “I’ve got 14 notebooks containing hourly readings of growth rates and root structure. In addition, I’ve kept tapes—taken at the time— of all the observations on pigmentation and leafage. That’s over and above the daily records.”

  His spate of technical information, which had a self-serving tinge, brought a quizzical smile to Howard Pendleton’s face.

  “Nobody’s denying that you did a lot of hard work, Eric,” he said mildly.

  “No, no,” said Dick Vandam. “We have every confidence in your work, Howard, and . . . er, Dr. Most.”

  Instead of the gratitude he might have expected, he was assailed by a blast of common sense from Fran Pendleton.

  “Well, I don’t know that it’s right to have too much confidence,” she said bluntly, startling everybody except her husband. “Now that we’ve had a chance to compare Scotty’s lab books with IPR’s, things are a lot worse than we thought. The expert witnesses will say that the two sets are identical. Either you believe in astronomical coincidences or . . .”

  Breaking off suddenly, she looked at her husband. He finished the sentence for her. “Or,” he said, “somehow or other Scotty got hold of our results.”

  “You mean stole them,” Eric Most corrected indignantly. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

  Pendleton was unwilling to go that far. “I’d just as soon let the experts characterize it.”

  “I must say I don’t understand your attitude toward Wenzel, Howard,” Dick Vandam said angrily.

  “He’s a thief, pure and simple. Furthermore, he’s out to destroy you if he can. That’s absolutely clear. We are not talking about cheating on an exam, you know, or plagiarizing.”

  If Pendleton had been overly tolerant, he made up for it now. Rising to his full height, he said, “I know you don’t understand my attitude. You seem to think tantrums will advance our cause. Well, they won’t. Whether or not he’s a thief, Scott Wenzel cannot destroy me. But, as Mr. Sanders’ presence here proves, what he can destroy is Vandam’s. Fran, I think it’s time for us to be getting along.”

  To Thatcher’s way of thinking, when it came to parting shots, honors between Ned Ackerman and Howard Pendleton were equally divided.

  Chapter 9

  Fine for Freezing

  IN a strictly physical sense, John Thatcher was transported from Vandamia to Chicago in great comfort. There was nothing utilitarian about the Vandam Cessna that was winging him and Earl Sanders to O’Hare Field. Ten more passengers could have been accommodated in style. There was a solicitous steward. Thatcher occupied an ample easy chair, and he had every confidence that his luggage was being cosseted with velour, too.

  Spiritually, the atmosphere left much to be desired.

  “The Vandams treat themselves to nothing but the best,” said Sanders, sourly looking around what was now Standard Foods’ property. “Yes, I will have another Scotch and water.”

  Whatever enthusiasm Sanders and Standard Foods had brought to their acquisition of Vandam’s had been pegged to Numero Uno. This morning’s debacle gave Ned Ackerman’s final thrust some muscle. If Numero Uno, or VR 117, belonged to Wisconsin Seedsmen, then Vandam’s and the assorted Vandams were out in the cold, leaving their Cessna
behind.

  “And frankly I don’t give a damn whether they were lunatic enough to steal Numero Uno, or feebleminded enough to lose it,” said Sanders, following this thought all the way.

  “Surely there’s another possibility,” Thatcher suggested. “Pendleton may have been the one who did the losing. I’m surprised Dick Vandam hasn’t pressed that alternative.”

  Sanders’ teeth glinted briefly. “He’d like to. Unfortunately, Ingersoll did his homework, and it’s on record that IPR is a pretty secure setup. So it boils down to the old story: somebody pays a file clerk to siphon off the experimental results as soon as they’re put on paper. And if there wasn’t so much money involved, I could almost see it as a spite job. Did you notice the hostility between Wenzel and that Eric Most?”

  “I could scarcely avoid noticing it,” Thatcher said, then closed his mouth firmly.

  In fact the antagonism had seemed overdone to him, almost as if it were being rammed down his throat. Why should Wenzel be so contemptuous of a man whose credentials were presumably very close to his own, if they had landed him the same job? Why should Most automatically distrust a researcher who had not previously been in competition with him? Of course it would not be the first time two people had fallen prey to an instinctive aversion. But it would also not be the first time two young schemers had conspired to rob a successful employer.

  Then there was the third young man, the one who did his homework so carefully.

  “Is Jason Ingersoll the only Vandam besides Dick who’s in top management?” Thatcher inquired.

  “The whole place is infested with them,” Sanders grunted. “There are dozens of them on the payroll, and not at starting level salaries, either. But yes, now that old Milton’s been tossed to the wolves, it’s Jason and Dick who are running the show, if you can call it that.”

  Disregarding hyperbole and disparagement alike, Thatcher asked exactly who Ingersoll was.