Alan Hedges let a long sigh fall to the floor like a tired spaniel. ‘Mr President, sir,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t become any of us to over-react to the reality of a situation simply because the media see their chance to sell more newspapers or gain more viewers. Let me tell you something about agriculture. It’s an up-and-down business. These days, we’re used to having it up all the time. After the Second War, modem techniques improved farming beyond all imagination. Did you know that in nineteen forty-six this country couldn’t expect more than twenty-six bushels of corn per acre? These days with hardier strains of crop and better techniques, we’re getting ninety-seven bushels an acre, and more. And that’s with only six man-hours, instead of one-hundred and eight. Did you know that in nineteen forty-six, the average US farm worker fed only eleven people with his efforts, but that nowadays he can feed fifty-two?’

‘I know the agricultural capacity of my own country. Senator Hedges,’ said the president, frostily. ‘I just want to know how serious this blight situation actually is.’

‘I’m trying to explain, sir,’ said Hedges. ‘What I’m saying is that by nineteen eighty expectations, we’re going to suffer a loss of yield. But by nineteen seventy-two expectations, we’re still going to do phenomenally well.’

‘This isn’t nineteen seventy-two,’ snapped the president. ‘No, sir, it isn’t. But our food supply commitment isn’t so much greater today that we can’t cope with it. If you want, I have all the figures here. You can see for yourself that everything is under control. Unpleasant, yes, and very unfortunate for many farmers. But under control.’

The president made no move to take the buff-coloured folder that Hedges offered him. After a few moments, Alan Hedges placed it carefully on the edge of the president’s desk.

Hedges said, ‘I’d very much appreciate it, Mr President, if you could make a statement tonight or tomorrow morning that places the whole blight question into its proper perspective. Otherwise we’re going to have the newspapers full of scare stories, and we’re going to find that all the reserves of food which ought to be carefully held back to keep the situation under control for next year – well, you know what people are like – they’re going to panic and those reserves are going to dwindle away in front of our eyes. We wouldn’t want to have a famine on our hands, would we?’

The president stood silently beside his desk for a long while. Then he said, ‘Are you sure of what you’re saying, Alan? You don’t have any ulterior motives for playing this blight down?’

Alan Hedges blinked at him. ‘Ulterior motives, Mr President?’