‘That’s what he told me on the phone,’ said Mike Smith. ‘He said that somebody called Professor Protter in Washington had called him up, and spilled the beans on the whole blight situation. The blight was caused by some virus called Vorar D, some kind of defoliant they developed for Vietnam.’

‘He’s drunk,’ said Della. ‘He’s been rambling like this ever since I met him. Earlier on, he was saying that the blight was an act of God.’

‘God?’ enquired Dr Benson, loudly. ‘Has God decided to grace us with His presence?’

Mike Smith pulled a face. ‘I can’t broadcast anything from a source as pickled as this,’ he said.

Ed kept his arm protectively around Dr Benson’s shoulders. ‘I know you can’t,’ he told Mike Smith. ‘But when I first talked to Dr Benson about this blight, he wasn’t drunk. And he did believe it was caused by a virus. Presumably somebody in Washington – Professor Protter, or whoever – presumably they’ve discovered what virus it is.’

‘I can’t send out a story on evidence like this,’ said Mike Smith, shaking his head.

‘So what are you going to do?’ asked Ed. ‘You’ve seen the crops for yourself, the condition they’re in. Are you going to ignore them, and run the same news stories as everybody else?’

‘It’s under control,’ said Mike Smith. ‘Everybody from the governor downwards tells me it’s under control.’

‘Sure it’s under control,’ said Ed, hotly. ‘It’s under so much control that I’ve just lost eighty-five thousand acres of wheat without being able to stop it, or even slow it down. Under control, crap.’

Mike Smith spread his arms apologetically. ‘I don’t see what I can do. Here’s a scientist giving me all the answers I want, and the only trouble is that the scientist is blind drunk. Sober him up, and then I’ll talk to him. But it’s more than my reputation’s worth to interview him now.’

Della said, ‘I’m afraid he’s right. You can’t believe a man in this condition, even if you want to.’

Ed lowered his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I suppose you can’t. Dr Benson – I’m going to drive you home.’

Dr Benson shook his head. ‘One more drink. One more, and then I’ll come. Bartender – one more drink!’

Ed looked at Della with a feeling of bitterness that he could hardly control. ‘I should have known better,’ he said. ‘I should have known a whole damned sight better.’

‘Once a hayseed, always a hayseed,’ Della told him, and grinned.

Ed slammed the fiat of his hand on to the bar, and the barman looked around warily.

Twelve