‘And sometimes a job can disappear under your feet,’ snapped Peter. ‘Shearson wants the wraps on this blight until he’s ready to instruct the president himself, and if you try to blow it before then, you’re going to find yourself cultivating your own backyard for a living.’

‘I’ll call you later,’ said Professor Protter, and banged the phone down.

Peter sat at his desk for a while, pulling at the skin of his face in suppressed tension. Then he jabbed the button for Karen’s phone.

‘Karen? What’s the latest on the fund?’

‘I don’t know exactly, Mr Kaiser. Do you want me to find out?’

‘I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t wanted you to.’

‘I’ll check it right away. Oh – and by the way – The New York Times agricultural correspondent is holding on extension four.’

‘Tell him I’m out.’

‘This is the seventh time he’s called today, Mr Kaiser. He’s beginning to think you’ve got something to hide.’ Peter frowned. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Nothing, Mr Kaiser. They were his words.’

‘All right. Put him through. Oh, and Karen—’

‘Yes, Mr Kaiser?’

‘Last night—’

‘Don’t even mention it, Mr Kaiser.’

‘But I wanted to show you how sorry I was for my clumsiness. I got carried away, I guess. It’s the strain of this blight crisis business. I thought maybe I could make up for it.’

‘I don’t know how, Mr Kaiser,’ said Karen.

‘You can stop calling me “Mr Kaiser” for beginners. My name’s Peter. And for seconds, why don’t you come to Kansas with me over the week-end to meet Senator Jones?

He’s spending the week-end at Fall River, and we’re bound to have a terrific time. When Senator Jones entertains, he really entertains.’

Karen hesitated. Then she said, ‘I’ll think about it. Okay? And don’t blame yourself for last night. Everybody makes faux pas once in a while.’

Peter grimaced. ‘All right, Karen,’ he said. ‘If you want to come, just book yourself a seat. I want to leave by nine o’clock Friday night. And don’t forget to rent a car from Wichita to take us to Fall River.’

‘Very good, Mr Kaiser. I’m just putting The New York Times through now.’

It was Bill Brinsky, a hoarse-voiced veteran reporter whom Peter had run up against more than once. Bill Brinsky’s thirst for Chivas Regal was legendary, but as Peter had once discovered to his cost, it didn’t matter how many whiskies you bought him, and how sozzled he appeared to be, he always sat down to his typewriter with a clear head and a very sharp way of setting out the truth.

‘Bill,’ said Peter, with a high note of false jollity. ‘How are you doing?’