by Emma Lathen
He had touched a sore spot.
“Do I really have to go? Into the arena with all those lions?” Barbara asked fretfully.
“What’s to be afraid of? We’ll all stick together,” Ned promised.
Barbara shifted her ground. “I was counting on some spare time. I haven’t even been out to see my parents yet.”
“Tomorrow night. And all day the day after,” Wenzel added hastily. “But tonight you know we want to put on a big show and we’ve only got four warm bodies.”
“Thank you very much!” Barbara snapped before her attention was caught. “Four warm bodies?”
Wenzel nodded. “Yes. I got Hilary to fly down to swell our ranks. She should be here in an hour. So why don’t you go and get dressed, and take your time off tomorrow.”
“Oh, all right,” said Barbara, already on her way to the door.
“Well, she changed her mind damned fast,” Scott remarked idly.
Ackerman was amused. “She’s got a lot to do.”
He had noticed years ago that Hilary roused a competitive feminine spark in Barbara. There would be a lot more care paid to hair and makeup tonight than Barbara had originally intended. Scott, of course, would go to his death without noticing.
“In any event, I’m glad she’s coming,” Wenzel said, confirming Ackerman’s opinion. “Our whole future depends on how we handle things right now.”
“My future depends on it. Your future depends on it. But Barbara’s doesn’t,” Ackerman said slowly and distinctly. “In case you’ve forgotten, she’s leaving her child with her parents when she goes back to college. She’s got lots to do in Chicago besides think about Wisconsin Seed.”
Wenzel had the grace to be shamefaced. “That’s right, she did tell me and I forgot.”
Say what you would about Scott, Ackerman thought, he pursued his own interests and he expected other people to pursue theirs. You just had to remind him of their existence occasionally.
“And it doesn’t help for her to be dogged by guys from Vandam’s and have you suspecting her old friends of taking payoffs,” he continued, on the principle of seizing the moment.
“They’re my old friends too, if it comes to that.”
“I doubt if you exchanged baby pictures with Mrs. Pendleton,” Ackerman said impatiently. “Just lay off Barbara, will you, Scott?”
Wenzel might agree, but he was damned if he was going to feel guilty. “All right, all right. But you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. I’ve known her longer than you have. And she wasn’t putting up such a big defense for Howard Pendleton. Besides it was a perfectly logical suspicion.”
“She may not be as big on logic as you are.”
“Anyway, I grant you that she needs some time off. And with Hilary here for the next couple of days, this is a good time for her to take it.”
“Good.” Normally Ackerman could take Hilary or leave her. She was even stronger on logic than Scott. But her presence tonight would be a real plus, and she would give Scott heightened visibility during the remainder of the week. ‘That’s going to work out perfectly. With Hilary at your side, everybody’s going to notice you, and think they know what Wisconsin Seed is up to. In the meantime I can slip quietly away and even Barbara doesn’t have to know.”
Wenzel shrugged. “No reason why she shouldn’t,” he said negligently.
“Why add to her troubles? The less she realizes she’s sitting on a keg of dynamite, the happier she’ll be.”
“You’re probably right. God knows your methods seem to be paying off. What about your old buddies at USDA? They still have their pipeline to the Patent Office open?”
“Open and operating,” Ackerman said smugly.
Wenzel shook his head in admiration. “You’ve really got it made, Ned. Everybody has me pegged for the troublemaking SOB, while you’re just a quiet good-natured pencil pusher. Little do they know who’s about to pull the rug out from under them.”
“I didn’t do it alone, boy.” Ackerman stubbed out his cigar and heaved himself to his feet. “Now we’d better go get dressed, and let’s make a production of it. Remember, Scott, tonight we turn out looking prosperous, assured, and very, very respectable.”
Chapter 13
Easy to Cultivate
AT the McCormick Inn the first witnesses to all this resplendence were John Thatcher and Charlie Trinkam. The deathwatch at Wenonah Industries had left Trinkam with a new tolerance for any alternative activity. When Earl Sanders proffered tickets, it was Charlie who accepted.
“Why not?” he had justified himself. “As nearly as I can make out, the American Sweet Pea Society isn’t heading for bankruptcy. That’s good enough for me.”
For Charlie’s sake, Thatcher was pleased to see life signs of institutional vigor during the cocktail hour. Everywhere people were discussing new contests, new charter tours, new committee memberships. And the party from Wisconsin Seed did nothing to detract from this robust atmosphere as they walked through the doorway into the arms of the Sloan.
Hilary Davis would have been noticed anywhere. She used makeup to emphasize her individuality so that her thick dark eyebrows and long jawline became hallmarks. Similarly, she dressed to accentuate her tall, lanky body, wearing very high heels and a straight brown velvet suit highlighted by a low white satin tie. Barbara Gunn was more conventional but, true to Ned Ackerman’s prediction, she had resorted more freely to blue eye shadow and rouge than usual. As a result she was able to carry off the brilliant blue silk that usually made her look too pale. Their escorts did them full justice. Most of the men present were in business suits, but both Wenzel and Ackerman wore dinner jackets. Surprisingly, it was the younger, trendier Wenzel who looked badly fitted. Ackerman’s garment had long since given up the fight and conformed to his general contours.
The explanation was forthcoming when Charlie twitted him on his finery.
“I don’t put it on more than once a year these days, but when I was assigned to FAO in Rome, it was one formal dinner after another.”
Thatcher was interested to learn that Ackerman, so quintessentially a Midwestern type, had logged enough years with the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations to qualify as an expert on some aspects of international trade and investment.
“Of course most of the gut work is setting up programs in underdeveloped countries, but you’d be surprised at how much else you pick up,” Ackerman concluded, after a well- informed discussion of world wheat movements.
He would have been happy to drop it there and let Scott Wenzel talk about the day’s meetings. But Hilary Davis, seconded by Barbara Gunn, egged him on to become anecdotal. The ladies, Thatcher decided, were exercising their superior social sense. He was all wrong as he discovered ten minutes later.
Ackerman had been regaling them with tales of a Swiss team of agronomists, all experts in high-altitude cultivation, who spent their lives circling the globe, pausing only at locations ten thousand feet above sea level. In consequence they had missed most of the major social developments of the post-war world.
“Nothing happens that high up. They hadn’t even heard about the population explosion. But what the hell! I would have been just as bad, except that I was into hot, arid areas so I was a lot closer to the action.”
There then followed one of those pauses that overtake ill-assorted groups. Charlie Trinkam, in an attempt at light conversation, turned to Barbara Gunn.
“They tell me this bash is really a song of triumph by Vandam’s. Under the circumstances you’re pretty good sports to join the cheering crowd.”
Suddenly a grey pall descended on her. One moment she had been laughing about the Swiss, as pretty as any girl in the room. Now she looked ten years older.
“I don’t know anything about that,” she stammered with painful intensity. “Really I don’t.”
It was Ned Ackerman who rescued her.
“Oh, sweet peas are neutral territory,” he said easily. “We’ll let Vandam’s kee
p them. Of course I’d like to see a little reciprocal generosity from them about tomatoes.”
What had been intended as a pleasantry reminded Hilary Davis of a legal question.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. You know Scott told me what the Standard Foods lawyer said, about decreasing the useful life of the patent. Naturally he was using it as an argument for immediate production. But it does raise some interesting ramifications. Once you establish your claim to that patent, I see no reason why you shouldn’t recover for that loss. Certainly if you can show criminal or malicious intent—”
“Whoa, Hilary!” Ned Ackerman backed off in mock alarm. “You’re way ahead of me. Just give us undisputed possession of that patent, and I’ll be satisfied. Making legal history may be fun for you lawyers, but it’s an expensive hobby for the rest of us.”
Wenzel was not sure he agreed. “I don’t know about that, Ned. Every little bit helps.”
Ackerman began unobtrusively semaphoring. His dislike of this discussion was perfectly apparent to Thatcher and Charlie. It seemed, however, to be lost on the two who counted.
“Not just a little bit,” Hilary corrected. “A great deal.”
Wenzel was still talking to his partner. “Of course I’d want Paul Jackson’s opinion. Hilary could be all wet. You don’t learn much about patents doing pro bono work.”
Thatcher could feel Charlie flinch. But a remark guaranteed to trigger warfare between most couples left Hilary Davis entirely unruffled.
“Go ahead and call Jackson. You’ll find I’m right. Besides,” she continued, “I’m not talking about patents, I’m talking about damages. And you learn plenty about them in pro bono work.”
Thatcher, who felt they were still in dangerous territory, seized this opportunity to shift the conversation. “I know a good many young lawyers who are going into your field these days,” he remarked. “I suppose it has a sense of purpose lacking in more traditional areas.”
“I regard ecology cases as the most important contribution I can make to society,” she replied resoundingly. “We have an environment rapidly deteriorating past the point of no return, and other attempts to control the situation, scientific conferences, government watchdogs, committee reports, have been worse than useless. The only way you can force anyone into ecological responsibility is by making them pay through the nose for the consequences. That’s why the litigation approach is so valuable. We’re breaking new ground every day in extending traditional areas of liability. On a smaller scale, they did the same thing with manufacturers’ warranties. Well, we’re going to make it financially disastrous to have anything to do with pollution.”
“That’s fine if your targets are the Fortune 500,” said Charlie, whose sufferings with Wenonah Industries had marked him. “But some of the worst delinquents are relatively small outfits. You get awarded really big damages and they just declare bankruptcy.”
Hilary smiled menacingly. “I do not accept the thesis of judgment-proof defendants in this area. If the malefactor can’t pay, then what about his banker?”
“His banker!” Charlie echoed in spite of himself.
“Certainly!” she said militantly. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re financing the discharge of industrial contaminants. Why shouldn’t you be responsible?”
Since Charlie was now speechless, Thatcher took over.
“We’re providing the culprit with a service,” he admitted. “But so is the taxpayer who provides highways, so is the federal government which provides military protection and, for that matter, so is every single consumer who purchases the end product. Morally, you could use the same argument to go after them.”
“I’m not interested in moral justification, I’m interested in feasible points of attack,” she said with more honesty than many of her fellows. “We’d lose public support if we went after consumers, and we’d get creamed if we went after the federal government. But stockholders and banks, they should be easy.”
It was Thatcher’s turn to smile.
“Don’t be too sure of that,” he counseled.
“That’s some bunch they’ve got at Wisconsin Seed,” Charlie commented half an hour later as they were joining the drift into the dining room.
“They’re certainly not the normal foursome they appear,” Thatcher agreed.
“And what the hell was the matter with the secretary? I addressed two simple sentences to her, and she froze and didn’t utter one more word while we were there.”
Some women have a light hand with pastry. Charlie Trinkam prided himself on his light hand with the ladies. He was genuinely puzzled by his signal failure with Barbara Gunn.
“She was unnerved, there’s no doubt about that, but I don’t think you were the cause,” Thatcher reassured him. “She can be happy as long as nobody is talking about the Numero Uno lawsuit. If they start, she goes into shock.”
“Then she should look for another job!” Charlie retorted. “And what about the other two. They’re playing house by some pretty strange rules. She shuts him up whenever he gets started on his specialty, but has no qualms about letting fly with her own. And he’s ready to tell the world that her professional opinion isn’t worth a hill of beans. He doesn’t seem to think much of her competence as a lawyer.”
But Thatcher had become thoughtful. “I can think of another reason why he’d want a second opinion.”
Charlie, when not distracted by social failure, was capable of rational thought. “You mean because he hasn’t told her everything?” he speculated. “The more you think of it, the more sense it makes. She realizes he’s holding back, so she doesn’t scratch his eyes out when he won’t accept her advice. What’s more, she discourages him from starting a line of talk that could lead to Numero Uno. And when we get there anyway, she flaps a lot of ecology at us.”
“It’s a coherent theory,” Thatcher said cautiously.
“But it may be a lot of hogwash,” Charlie grinned, completing the thought. “She may simply be the kind of woman who prefers the sound of her own voice to any other.” “They do exist. But the net result, for no matter what reason, is that Scott Wenzel and Hilary Davis flaunt their professional qualifications while Ned Ackerman lurks in the background.”
“That Plain-Joe act of his is near perfect. I wonder how many people realize he’s the brains of the outfit.”
Thatcher reviewed what he had been told. “Not many. I remember that at first Vandam’s was inclined to dismiss this suit as a mere nuisance claim. It wouldn’t surprise me if they still regard Wenzel and Ackerman as two petty con men. Sanders, however, is beginning to take Ackerman’s measure.”
“And I suppose this Pendleton has taken Wenzel’s?”
“You can ask him yourself. The Pendletons are joining us at Earl Sanders’ table.”
Charlie’s researches died aborning. This was partly due to Howard Pendleton’s repressiveness. He had the knack of returning such discouraging monosyllables that even the most assiduous questioner flagged. Yes, he had known Scott Wenzel for years. No, he had never heard of Ackerman before the lawsuit. Yes, Barbara Gunn was a strange girl.
Even more of an obstacle, however, was Mrs. Earl Sanders, who had flown into town for the evening and was flanked by two luminaries of the Sweet Pea Society. Mrs. Sanders, it developed, was a slave to her flower garden, and when she discovered that Fran Pendleton had created the Long John delphinium, she was beside herself.
“But that’s the one I planted! You know, Earl, the row on the west side of the garage. It’s wonderful.”
Fran blushed with pleasure. “I’m glad you like it. I do, too.”
“Like it!” Mrs. Sanders felt this did scant justice to her feelings. “Long John’s ten times better than what I had before. And I wouldn’t even have tried it except that it was an All-America winner. You plant breeders are a salvation for the rest of us.”
“We’re not the only ones coming up with results. Some of the work being done by amateurs is astonishing
. Have you seen Firecracker, the sweet pea that’s getting the award tonight? You really ought to try that.”
But Fran’s suggestion was not well received.
“Oh, sweet peas!” Mrs. Sanders cried tragically. “I really don’t know what they want from me. I give them the right soil, the right trenching, the right feeding. And all they do is curl up and die!”
She was immediately buried under a hail of advice from her neighbors. To each well-intended instruction she made the same reply: “I tried that. You remember, Earl?”
And her husband would say wearily, “I remember, I remember.”
By the time dessert was served, the luminaries had exhausted their stratagems but were still convinced that the fault must lie with Mrs. Sanders. In some way, shape, or form she was failing to provide a proper home for sweet peas.
“If you do the right thing by them,” the elder insisted, “they’ll do the right thing by you. I have never known it to fail.”
Mrs. Sanders was frankly mutinous. “Well that’s not much help if nobody knows what that thing is.”
“All of which proves why any amateur accomplishment is so impressive,” said Fran, spreading balm. “Any kind of fieldwork is subject to so many variables, like micro-climates, that we can control in the laboratory. Somebody like Mrs. Larrabee has really earned her prize check tonight.”
The luminary was reminded of his obligations. “I only wish more seed companies realized that. Vandam’s has provided a great incentive for all of us with their contest,” he said with stately commendation.
Considering that Standard Foods and IPR were both linked to Vandam’s, Thatcher was surprised at the lack of enthusiasm greeting this sentiment.
Sanders, after a sour glance at the head table that fairly bristled with Vandams, said, “They’re certainly reminding everybody who’s picking up the tab for Firecracker.”
“And God knows what kind of payoff they expect,” Pendleton muttered. “They like more than a tax deduction for their charitable contributions.”
