Peter sat back in his seat. ‘You know what this means, don’t you? You know what you’re saying?’
‘I fully understand all the implications of everything I’ve suggested,’ said Professor Protter. ‘But I must repeat that so far it’s only guesswork – and by my usual standards, pretty wild guesswork. We may still find that this gelatinous material is completely unconnected with the virus.’
‘What about the samples from Iowa? The corn, and the soybeans? And all that stuff they were supposed to be sending you from California?’
Professor Protter paused for a moment, while he consulted his notes. ‘We haven’t run tests on everything yet. We just haven’t had the time. But we’ve examined some grapes from Bakersfield, California, and there isn’t any question at all that they’ve been attacked by a similar species of virus.’
Peter was silent. It seemed as if Dr Benson’s first guess at the cause of the blight had been correct. It was a virus – and even more frighteningly, it had been spread deliberately.
Professor Protter said, ‘It wouldn’t have needed much spraying to start the virus off, you know. Just a couple of acres out of each farm. Once the virus gets going, it’s almost unstoppable. We reckon it can ruin an acre of prime wheat in two to three hours.’
‘All right,’ said Peter, distractedly. ‘Thanks for everything you’ve done. You’ll complete those tests on the rest of that California crop, won’t you? And you’ll remember that you’re bound to complete secrecy by federal law?’
‘I won’t forget,’ said Professor Protter, sourly. ‘Although how you’re going to keep the lid on a nationwide blight for very much longer, I don’t have any idea. I’ve already had die newspapers and the television stations calling me here.’
‘We don’t want panic,’ Peter told him. ‘If people start to panic, they’re going to rush around to their local supermarkets and empty the shelves in an hour. Once the president knows what’s going on, he’ll probably want to issue rationing instructions.’
There was a silence, and then Professor Protter said, ‘The president doesn’t know?’
‘Of course the president knows. He’s aware of the blight, and he’s aware that it’s spreading, but he gets all his information from the Depar’I’ment of Agriculture, and so far we’ve tried to keep the blight in perspective.’
‘In perspective?’ asked Professor Protter. ‘Don’t you know what’s going on out there? We may have lost fifteen per cent of our annual crops already!’
‘Professor Protter,’ said Peter, tersely, ‘you’re paid to find out what causes crop diseases, and to suggest antidotes – not to indulge yourself in wild political speculation.’
‘Sometimes a job goes beyond what you’re paid to do,’ retorted Professor Protter.
‘And sometimes a job can disappear under your feet,’ snapped Peter. ‘Shearson wants the wraps on this blight until he’s ready to instruct the president himself, and if you try to blow it before then, you’re going to find yourself cultivating your own backyard for a living.’
‘I’ll call you later,’ said Professor Protter, and banged the phone down.
Peter sat at his desk for a while, pulling at the skin of his face in suppressed tension. Then he jabbed the button for Karen’s phone.
‘Karen? What’s the latest on the fund?’
‘I don’t know exactly, Mr Kaiser. Do you want me to find out?’
‘I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t wanted you to.’
‘I’ll check it right away. Oh – and by the way – The New York Times agricultural correspondent is holding on extension four.’
‘Tell him I’m out.’
‘This is the seventh time he’s called today, Mr Kaiser. He’s beginning to think you’ve got something to hide.’ Peter frowned. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing, Mr Kaiser. They were his words.’
‘All right. Put him through. Oh, and Karen—’
‘Yes, Mr Kaiser?’
‘Last night—’
‘Don’t even mention it, Mr Kaiser.’
‘But I wanted to show you how sorry I was for my clumsiness. I got carried away, I guess. It’s the strain of this blight crisis business. I thought maybe I could make up for it.’
‘I don’t know how, Mr Kaiser,’ said Karen.
‘You can stop calling me “Mr Kaiser” for beginners. My name’s Peter. And for seconds, why don’t you come to Kansas with me over the week-end to meet Senator Jones?
He’s spending the week-end at Fall River, and we’re bound to have a terrific time. When Senator Jones entertains, he really entertains.’
Karen hesitated. Then she said, ‘I’ll think about it. Okay? And don’t blame yourself for last night. Everybody makes faux pas once in a while.’
Peter grimaced. ‘All right, Karen,’ he said. ‘If you want to come, just book yourself a seat. I want to leave by nine o’clock Friday night. And don’t forget to rent a car from Wichita to take us to Fall River.’
‘Very good, Mr Kaiser. I’m just putting The New York Times through now.’
It was Bill Brinsky, a hoarse-voiced veteran reporter whom Peter had run up against more than once. Bill Brinsky’s thirst for Chivas Regal was legendary, but as Peter had once discovered to his cost, it didn’t matter how many whiskies you bought him, and how sozzled he appeared to be, he always sat down to his typewriter with a clear head and a very sharp way of setting out the truth.
‘Bill,’ said Peter, with a high note of false jollity. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m doing a lot of waiting and a lot of running around, Peter,’ said Bill, in a harsh, barely courteous tone. ‘I’ve been trying to get the facts on this blight of yours, and I’m beginning to feel like a Cherokee Indian riding round and around a circle of wagons. I know there are scalps in there, Peter, but I can’t get at them.’
‘Have you talked to the press office at the Department?’
‘Oh, sure. Yesterday, and this morning, and early this afternoon. It’s always the same story. “Yes, Mr Brinsky, there is a serious blight. Yes, Mr Brinsky, it is still spreading. Yes, Mr Brinsky, there have been outbreaks in other states apart from Kansas. No, Mr Brinsky, we do have the whole situation completely under control. And, no, Mr Brinsky, we don’t expect a national shortfall of more than ten per cent.”’
That sounds fair enough to me,’ said Peter. ‘They’re the facts as we know them.’
They’re not facts,’ growled Bill. ‘They’re Department of Agriculture bullshit. I’ve been calling stringers in Oregon and Washington and North Dakota and Wisconsin and California and all over. Sure, we’ve got ourselves a serious wheat blight in Kansas. But what about the sweet potato crop in North Carolina? What about the oranges and the tomatoes in Florida? What about the sugar-cane in the Mississippi delta, and the Louisiana rice? What about the grasses, too? Alfalfa, and timothy, and lespedeza?’
‘Bill—’ interrupted Peter, ‘before you give me a whole agricultural geography of the United States – let me tell you one thing. Every year, every single year, every crop in America suffers from losses through drought or blight or insect activity. A couple of years ago, we had an unusually high number of typhoons and storms. Orange groves in Florida lost thirteen point five per cent of their anticipated output. Wheat farms in North Dakota fell short by nearly twenty per cent. Far more than we’re talking about today! But, all of a sudden, just because we have this very serious grain blight in Kansas, you and every other agricultural correspondent who’s out looking for some page one limelight – all of a sudden, you look around and try to read a scare story into something that happens every single year!’