Season was about to say something caustic in return, but she held herself back. Instead, she reached over to the low gilded coffee-table and opened the cigarette-box.
‘I’d really appreciate it if you sat down and made yourself comfortable,’ she told Mrs Hardesty. ‘I hate to see anyone feeling ill-at-ease in my home, no matter who it is.’ Mrs Hardesty looked to her son, but Ed simply said, ‘Sit down, Mother. I’ll fix you a cocktail.’
‘You will stay for some supper, won’t you?’ asked Season. ‘Perhaps you’d like to stay the night?’
The telephone over on the French bureau started to ring. Ed said, ‘Excuse me,’ and went across to pick it up. It was Willard, calling from the office on the far side of the yard.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ he said. ‘I saw the old lady’s car outside.’
‘Just the usual,’ said Ed. ‘Did you get hold of Benson?’
‘I sure did. And I hope you’re sitting down.’
‘Has he found out what it is?’
‘He has some ideas. But it turns out that we’re not the only farm that’s been hit. He’s had samples in this morning from as far away as Great Bend and Concordia. Seems like the whole state’s been affected.’
‘The whole state? You’re kidding.’
‘I wish I was,’ said Willard. ‘But I called Arthur Kalken over at the Hutchinson place just to check, and he told me their whole south valley is nothing but two thousand acres of blight. He’s had it for two, three days now.’
There hasn’t been anything about it on the news.’
‘Well, the state agricultural people have been trying to keep it quiet until they know what it is. They don’t want buyers boycotting Kansas wheat just because they’re afraid it might be contaminated or something. And also, the thing’s only just hit. Most of the farmers were like us – they thought they were the only ones who’d got it.’
Ed ran his hand through his hair. ‘What’s going to happen? Did Benson have any ideas?’
‘He’s still trying to isolate it. He’s sent some samples to the federal laboratories, too. But meanwhile, George Pulaski’s arranging an emergency meeting for all die state’s wheat farmers – probably in Kansas City and probably on Thursday morning.’
‘Okay,’ said Ed. ‘Did Benson give you any ideas about interim control? Sulphur spraying, anything of that kind?’
‘He said to leave it alone. It’s not rust, and it’s not powdery mildew, and it could react adversely if you dust it.’
Ed put the phone down. Season was watching hin intently, and she said, ‘You’ve got your Aristotle Contemplating The Bust Of Homer face on again. What’s wrong?’
‘Willard talked to Dr Benson. It seems like South Burlington isn’t the only farm with the blight. The whole state’s affected.’
‘And I suppose Benson still doesn’t know what it is?’ asked Mrs Hardesty.
‘No, Mother, he doesn’t,’ said Ed. ‘But it seems like he’s taken your advice, and sent the problem over his own head. He’s asked the federal laboratories to look at it, too.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Hardesty, ‘it won’t be the first time the wheat crop’s failed in Kansas. For some of those part-timers, it’s a regular occurrence.’
‘The whole wheat crop, throughout the whole state?’ asked Ed. ‘South Burlington’s wheat crop, too?’
‘The crop’s insured, isn’t it?’ Mrs Hardesty asked. ‘And at least your father isn’t around to see it fail. He would have tanned your hide.’
‘Mrs Hardesty, the blight isn’t Ed’s fault,’ said Season. Mrs Hardesty lifted her head, more like an eagle than ever. ‘Poor farmers always blame everything except their own lack of talent. Drought, floods, hail, mildew – they’re all an excuse.’
‘Mother,’ said Ed, ‘you’re going to make me mad in a minute.’
The telephone rang again. It was Willard. ‘Dr Benson called me,’ he said. ‘Told me to watch the two-thirty news on television. Seems like the state agricultural department has just put out a statement.’
Ed pointed to the television, and twisted his hand to indicate to Season that she should switch it on. Then he asked Willard, ‘Any more news about the analysis?’
‘Not a thing. Looks like it’s one of those diseases that’s going to baffle modern science for years to come.’
‘I’ll keep in touch,’ said Ed, and put the phone down again.
The news was just beginning. After a lead report about fighting in Iran, the anchorman said, ‘Trouble of a different kind here at home. Reports from the wheat-growing states of Kansas and North Dakota tell of a rapidly-spreading and so-far unidentified crop blight. Apparently the blight is attacking ripe ears of wheat and causing them to rot right on their stalks, and hundreds of acres of crops have already been destroyed. Local and federal agricultural experts are working around the clock to isolate the cause of the blight – so far without success. George Pulaski, chief of the agricultural department for the state of Kansas, the country’s number one wheat producer, says that he’s confident the blight will be brought under control before the damage ruins more than a nominal percentage of the year’s crop. But, he warned, many farmers may face substantial losses, if not bankruptcy.’
That was all. Ed walked over and switched the television off. ‘I think I could use a drink,’ he said, quietly.
‘Thank God your father isn’t here,’ said Mrs Hardesty. ‘Thank you, God,’ said Season, and Mrs Hardesty gave her a frosty stare.
Four
That evening, after supper, he went upstairs to his small library and placed a call to Senator Shearson Jones in Washington. The telephone rang for a long time before anyone answered, and then an irritated voice said, ‘Senator Jones’s residence.’
‘I’d like to speak to the senator, please.’
‘The senator isn’t here. He’s in Tobago, on vacation.’
‘He spoke in the Senate yesterday afternoon, on soybean subsidies.’
‘So?’
‘Well, either he has an incredible talent for throwing his voice, or else he’s still in Washington. You tell him it’s Ed Hardesty, son of Dan Hardesty, and you can also tell him one hundred and forty-two thousand tons.’
‘That’s the message? One hundred forty-two thousand tons?’
‘That’s the message.’
There was a lengthy pause, during which Ed could faintly hear someone laughing. Then there was a series of clicks, and the phone was put through to Senator Jones.
‘Jones here.’ The voice was thick, and slurred with tiredness or drink.
‘Senator Jones, you don’t know me, but you knew my father.’
‘That’s right. What’s this cockamamie message about one hundred and forty-two thousand tons?’
‘I’m not a blackmailer. Senator Jones. That was just a way of getting you on to the phone.’
‘All right, you got me. What do you want?’
‘You’ve heard about this wheat blight in Kansas?’
‘Sure. Something about it. But it doesn’t look too disastrous from where I’m sitting.’
‘You’re sitting in Washington, DC, Senator Jones. I’m sitting right in the middle of eighty-five thousand acres that are very rapidly turning black.’
‘Well? You’re insured under the Federal Crop Programme, aren’t you? Why don’t you go talk to that nice Mr Deal?’
‘I shall,’ said Ed. ‘But you know as well as I do that the Federal Insurance Programme only covers the cost of re-planting.’