Грэм Мастертон - Famine

‘I’m sorry. Senator,’ said Peter. ‘I’m doing my very best to get the money cleared promptly. But I’ve only had three days, and it’s a miracle we’ve gotten so much already. There were twenty-eight corporations involved in raising that seven million. Most of them were already on my list of over-profitables, and they couldn’t get rid of the money fast enough. But from now on in, we’re going to have a far tougher time.’

‘To be quite frank, Peter, I don’t think there’s going to be any “from now on in”,’ breathed Shearson, puffing at his cigar. ‘I’ve done what I can to keep this blight in the right kind of perspective, but if the media don’t realise what’s going on by the middle of next week, then they’re even dumber than I always thought they were.’

‘The president seems to think it’s all under control,’ said Peter.

‘The president’s scared shitless, and he’s clinging on to any and every optimistic statement that anybody comes up with,’ retorted Shearson. ‘How can he possibly turn around to the people of the greediest nation on the face of this earth and say, “I’m sorry, folks, but you’re going to have to do without bread, or corn, or french fries, or Post Toasties”? He’d be dragged out of the White House and publicly crucified.’

‘What about Protter?’ asked Peter. ‘Has he come up with anything yet? I asked him to call you direct if he did, in case I was out.’

‘No. No word from Protter,’ said Shearson. ‘Listen – I’ll meet up with you later. Right now I have to get myself dressed. But start thinking up ways to get that two million out of Michigan Tractors before mid-week.’

‘Okay, Senator. I’ll see you at the airport.’

Shearson put the phone down, but almost immediately it rang again. Billy walked across the parquet hallway with metal-tipped heels that methodically clicked, and picked up the receiver. He listened, and nodded, and finally he said to Shearson, ‘It’s Professor Protter. He says priority.’

‘All right,’ said Shearson. ‘I’ll take it. Bring me a tankard of Dom Perignon, will you? I’m as dry as a hog.’

Professor Protter sounded strained. ‘Senator? I believe I may have some good news for you.’

‘Good news?’ asked Shearson, suspiciously.

‘That’s right. We’ve made some excellent progress on the virus. It was very fortunate. Almost an accident. But the net result is that we may be able to clear most of it up.’ Shearson sucked silently at his cigar.

‘Are you there?’ asked Professor Protter.

‘I’m here,’ said Shearson. ‘Tell me what you’ve found out.’

‘It was Dr Egan’s idea, as a matter of fact. He sent a sample around to the Pentagon’s bacteriological warfare centre, and asked if they could possibly identify it. They spent twenty-four hours going through ten different samples, and then they called us back and said there wasn’t any doubt about it.’

‘Well?’ said Shearson, impatiently.

‘It’s an artificially cultivated virus which bears a strong resemblance to one of our own viruses called Vorar D. It was originally developed as a defoliant for Vietnam, but since then it’s been taken through several different variants. It has the same effect as powdery mildew – it arrests photosynthesis in growing plants – but it also causes very rapid decay and breakdown of the cells. It’s aerobic – which means that it’s transmitted through the air – and it’s not very easy to kill.’

‘I thought you said we could clear most of it away.’

‘I did. The Pentagon already have a formula for sterilising crops that have been infected by Vorar D, and they’re pretty sure they can adapt it to clear away this particular variety. The only problem is that it’s going to take some time.’

‘I see,’ said Shearson.

There was a lengthy silence. Then Professor Protter said, ‘You don’t sound as if you’re particularly pleased.’

‘Pleased? Of course I’m pleased,’ said Shearson.

‘Then what will you do? Will you call the president, and get the authorisation for the sterilising compound to be manufactured right away? Or what?’

‘I hope you’re not trying to dictate my course of action. Professor,’ said Shearson, testily. ‘I need to see a written report on this Vorar D before I can advise the president. And what do we know about this sterilising compound? Federal restrictions are very tight on what we can spray on our crops and what we can’t. Supposing it has dangerous side-effects? Supposing it pollutes water? Supposing it can cause malformation in unborn children?’

‘It’s been thoroughly tested,’ said Professor Protter. ‘Maybe it has, but you’re talking about a variant of it. Come on. Professor, the lives and safety of millions of Americans are at stake here. You can’t treat them like guinea-pigs in one of your laboratories.’

‘Senator-it will take weeks to produce sufficient supplies of sterilising compounds and even longer to spray them over all the affected areas. If we don’t set something in motion now, we may be too late. That’s if we’re not too late already.’

Billy arrived with a half-pint silver tankard of cold champagne, which he set down beside Shearson’s telephone. Shearson snapped his fingers at him to bring him a taper for his cigar.

‘What I want you to do. Professor—’ said Shearson, puffing at his cigar again, ‘—what I want you to do is prepare me a complete file on what you’ve discovered so far. Then, when I come back from Kansas on Monday morning. I’ll call a special meeting of the Agriculture Committee, and we can discuss what action we’re going to take.’

‘But Senator—’

‘Don’t “but Senator” me, Professor. Just do what you’re told.’

‘Senator, this is one time when I’m going to say no. The situation is urgent, we have the means to do something about it. Two days could make all the difference. I’m going to go way over your head with this information, and if I still don’t get anywhere. I’m going to the press.’

‘Professor,’ rumbled Shearson, gently. ‘I very much advise you against doing that.’

‘Try and stop me,’ snapped Professor Protter, and slammed his phone down.

Shearson held his own receiver in his hand for a few seconds, staring at it thoughtfully. Then, almost inaudibly, he said to Billy, ‘Get me Peter Kaiser again.’

At eight forty-five p.m., Karen Fortunoff was still waiting by the gate at Dulles Airport for Peter Kaiser to join her. She was wearing a smart camel-coloured suit, and she had bought herself a new week-end case especially for the trip. The flight had already been called twice, and she didn’t know if she ought to board the plane, with the risk that Peter wouldn’t make it in time, and that she would have to fly to Wichita alone – or if she should wait for him to arrive, and risk missing the flight altogether.

Outside, in the darkness, the Tri-Star’s engines were already whining, and she could see the last of the service vehicles driving away. She checked her watch. Maybe she should just forget the whole thing. She didn’t particularly like Peter anyway. If she hadn’t already told her friends that she was going to spend the week-end in the million-dollar vacation home of Senator Shearson Jones, and if she hadn’t been so worried about keeping herself up-to-date on the blight crisis, she would have gone back to her apartment and resigned herself to another Saturday and Sunday doing the same old things. Reading, drawing, watching TV.

She went to the window and stared out at the aeroplane. Most of the passengers were already in their seats, and she could see the stewardess counting heads for cocktails. Reflected in the dark glass, she could see her own face, too, like a silent and inquisitive stranger.