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?’