A chubby, intent-looking man on the television was holding up a pack of indigestion tablets, and saying: ‘Acid indigestion? Over-eating? There’s only one sure way to feel better fast.’
How right you are, thought Karen. All you have to do is let the worst crop blight in America’s history run riot – just long enough to gather in as much money as you possibly can from a spurious help-the-farmers appeal fund. That’s the sure way to cut out over-eating, particularly other people’s, and that’s certainly the way to feel better fast.
She felt strangely confused emotions about Shearson Jones this afternoon. Last night, once everybody had showered and changed into formals, the staff of Lake Vista had laid on the kind of meal that Karen would have classified as a banquet, but which Shearson had simply dismissed as ‘supper.’ They had started off with soft-shelled crabs on toast, followed by chicken croquettes, lamb cutlets with tartare sauce, beef tongue in aspic, salads, fresh fruits, ices, cheeses, and liqueurs. She had watched in sheer amazement as Shearson Jones crammed his mouth with course after course, swilling his food down with mouthfuls of vintage French wines, and only a gentle kick under the table from Peter Kaiser had reminded her not to stare too intently at her host’s gastronomic enormities.
Early this morning, wandering around the house on her own, she had asked one of the Muldoon brothers, as innocently as she could, if Lake Vista was stocked with sufficient food to see them through a period of shortage. The brother had grinned and taken her on a tour of the kitchens, where two Chinese chefs were kept constantly busy while Shearson was in residence. He had taken her, too, to the cold store, where beef and lamb and venison carcasses hung in hundreds; and to the wine cellars, which had been excavated almost a hundred and fifty feet into the rock.
‘We could live here for six months without ever going to a market once,’ said the Muldoon brother. ‘Even if we had the senator here, eating his usual five meals a day.’
As Saturday wore on, though, Karen had grown increasingly restless and disappointed. Although she was impressed by the wealth and vulgarity of Shearson’s house, and by the greed of his lifestyle, she had expected him to invite at least one or two minor politicians to share his week-end in the Mid-West, or a movie star at the very worst. Instead, Shearson spent hour after hour closeted with Peter Kaiser, talking money and politics, and if anybody else was coming, there wasn’t any sign of them yet. Last night, Peter hadn’t come up to their balconied bedroom until way past three in the morning, and even though Karen had been reasonably encouraging, for the want of anybody else, he had fallen straight to sleep, and snored. He had been out of bed at six, and dressed, and his only amorous gesture had been to peck Karen on the cheek before he went downstairs to breakfast.
Now he was back in conference with Shearson, and she didn’t expect to see him until dinner. She yawned, and in technological response, the television started a re-run of The African Queen.
A voice said, ‘Hi.’
She looked around. Stepping out on to the balcony came a tall, loose-limbed man in a short-sleeved white shirt and cream slacks. His hair was thick and wiry and black, his eyebrows shaggy, and his eyes as green as pistachio ice, with mint chips. He smiled at Karen, walked to the rail, and looked out over the lake.
‘Quite a romantic view you’ve got yourself up here,’ the man said.
Karen shaded her eyes against the sun so that she could look at him. ‘It depends how romantic you’re feeling.’
The man glanced at the television. ‘You sound as if you don’t feel romantic at all.’
‘I’m potentially romantic,’ she said. ‘It’s just that, around here, romance doesn’t seem to be written into the schedule. It’s either eating, or politics, or both.’
‘That doesn’t sound too much fun,’ said the man. ‘I only just arrived here. My name’s Ed Hardesty, by the way.’
Karen held out her hand, and said, ‘Karen Fortunoff. Say – aren’t you the farmer? The one who’s supposed to be heading up the Blight Crisis Appeal?’
‘That’s right.’
Karen sat up straight. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘would you like a glass of champagne? I’ll have one of the Muldoons bring it up for you.’
‘Why not?’ said Ed. ‘I’ve got nothing on my hands but time. Della said I had to come out here this afternoon for a video test, but it looks like the TV people have gotten delayed.’
‘Well, that’s show business,’ said Karen. ‘Have you ever seen this house before? Isn’t it something else?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ed. ‘I’m kind of a traditionalist myself. My ideal home is one of those white antebellum mansions in Virginia, with the darkies singing sweet and low in the cottonfields.’
Karen frowned at him. ‘You weren’t originally a farmer, were you? I mean, you don’t talk like a farmer.’
‘I was born on a farm, right here in Kansas. But I guess I’ve spent most of my intelligent life in New York City. I only came back here to take over the farm when my father and my older brother died.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
Ed looked away. ‘It was a pretty hard knock. But at least I still own the land they gave their lives for. I guess it probably sounds sentimental to anyone else, but it’s given me the chance to build them some kind of memorial.’ Karen pressed the buzzer on the table for one of the Muldoons to come up. She scrunched up her eyes against the sunlight, and said, ‘That doesn’t sound sentimental at all. This blight must be hitting you pretty hard. Emotionally, as well as financially.’
Karen watched Ed carefully. She didn’t know him at all, and she supposed that it was quite possible he was a friend of Shearson’s, or Peter’s, or even a hired informer. But somehow he didn’t sound like it, or look like it. In the time that Karen had been working for Peter Kaiser, she had come to develop a nose for anybody who snuffled around the same political sty as Shearson Jones. They always had some of Shearson’s piggish characteristics – which Ed Hardesty plainly didn’t.
‘You know this blight’s going to turn out a whole lot worse than the news media have been giving out,’ Karen volunteered.
Ed turned away from the railing, and regarded her curiously.
‘What makes you say that?’ he asked.
‘Well, the television news has been saying it’s serious. A third of the wheat crop lost already, and a quarter of the soybean crop. But I don’t think anybody realises quite how serious it really is.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s been a whole lot of hushing up. Some of it’s been deliberate, some of it hasn’t. Some of it’s been well-intentioned, because the government doesn’t want anybody to panic. But the truth is that almost every crop in every state has been affected – some badly, some not so badly – and it’s going to get a whole lot worse.’
‘How much worse?’ asked Ed, stiffly. He was as suspicious of Karen as she was of him.
‘Worse to the point where there may not be any fresh cereal, fruit, vegetables, or grazing crops – none at all. Worse to the point where the United States agricultural economy for one whole year may be totally wiped out.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ asked Ed, in a wary voice.