Famine

by Graham Masterton

  ‘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

  She was lying on the cedarwood pooldeck in back of the house, stretched out on an airbed. A light breeze rustled in the trees, and the sunlight danced in dazzling spots on the surface of the water. She felt soothed, and relaxed, and calm. All the tensions of Kansas had eased their way out of her mind, until there was nothing inside her consciousness at all but summer heat, and fragrant wind, and peace.

  She knew it would take far more than a couple of days sunbathing to replace the tensions that she had lost, but for the time being the peace was enough.

  Carl and Vee had taken Sally to Universal this morning for the studio tour. Season had preferred to stay behind. She had lingered over her breakfast, drinking four cups of black coffee. Then she had undressed and sat naked on the edge of the pool, slowly kicking her legs in the water and smoking a joint. The glittering ripples had cross-hatched her imagination with bright reflections, and she had meditated for almost a half-hour, feeling one with the sun and the water and the trees.

  Now, shiny with Coppertone, aromatic as a pina colada, she was lying with her eyes closed getting an all-over tan.

  A little after eleven, she heard a knocking at the french doors which gave out on to the pool deck. She was almost asleep, and she stretched herself like a cat.

  ‘Vee?’ she called. ‘Is that you?’

  There was an awkward throat-clearing noise. ‘Mrs Hardesty? Season? Am I interrupting you?’

  Season reached across for her beach-wrap, and covered herself. Then she pushed her wide pink-tinted sunglasses on to the end of her slippery nose, and peered towards the house. It was too shadowy inside to see who was there.

  ‘Who is this?’ she said.

  ‘It’s me. Granger Hughes. I just stopped by to see how you were. But if it’s inconvenient—’

  ‘Oh, Granger. Not at all. Did Marie let you in? Come on out here, and I’ll have her fix us some drinks. It’s good to see you.’

  Granger stepped out through the french doors into the sunlight. He was dressed in white today – a crisp cotton suit and white shoes. He wore aviator sunglasses, and his blond hair looked spiky, as if he had been swimming. The sun momentarily caught his huge crucifix, a flash of religious light.

  ‘How are you?’ said Season. ‘I won’t shake your hand. I’m smothered in suncream.’

  Granger drew up one of the white wrought-iron chairs, and sat beside her. ‘I’m very well,’ he said. ‘And I’m pleased to see that you’re still here in LA.’

  ‘I think I’ll be staying for quite a while.’

  ‘You’re going to need some time, huh?’

  Season nodded. ‘I’m beginning to feel better in myself. I’m beginning to understand that I didn’t actually lose my personality when I was out there in Kansas. I’m still me. But I’ve been in hiding for so many months inside of my head – well, it’s going to take me a while to coax me out again.’

  Granger crossed his legs. ‘Do you think I could help? That’s what my church is all about.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never been particularly religious. I believe in God, but that’s about all.’

  ‘That’s all you need. We’re not one of your heavy, upright, believe-it-or-else organisations. We’re not a bunch of religious kooks, either. We’re just a group of friendly, concerned young people who believe that the power of our Lord Jesus Christ was, and is, a practical power. As practical as a garage mechanic’s wrench, or a housewife’s food blender.’

  ‘The Church of the Holy Cuisinart?’ asked Season, sarcastically.

  Granger grinned. ‘You can make fun. A lot of people do. But the whole thing makes human sense and spiritual sense too. Our Lord has power, and nobody in the whole world can convince me that he won’t let us use that power for good. Why do you think Jesus demonstrated his miracles in public? So that the people around him would realise that they could heal people too.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Season. ‘Right now I feel like emptying my head right out, not filling it up.’

  Maria came to the doors in her black dress and her white apron. Season called, ‘Maria? Could you bring us out two glasses of white wine, please? The Christian Brothers’ pinot chardonnay.’

  Granger said, ‘I’m not asking you to fill your head up. Keep it as empty as you like. I just believe that I could help you come to terms with yourself again. And I know that you’d enjoy one of our meetings. Why don’t you come tomorrow? I could call by and pick you up.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Season. ‘We have friends coming over for lunch tomorrow.’

  Granger looked at her winningly. His eyes were as pale as opals. ‘It won’t take more than a couple of hours of your time. I mean that. And it could be the turning-point in your whole life. Apart from that, you’d be the most beautiful woman in the whole congregation, and I’d love to have you there.’

  ‘You’re flattering me again, Granger. Last time I was tired. Now I’m not.’

  ‘You’re still beautiful.’

  Maria came flip-flapping out from the house in her plastic sandals, carrying two large glasses of freezing-cold pinot chardonnay on a tray.

  ‘Mr Hughes staying for lunch?’ she asked. ‘Avocado salad.’

  That’s a nice idea,’ said Season. ‘Carl and Vee won’t be back from the studio tour until later. Can you spare the time?’

  Granger grinned. ‘For you, I could spare the rest of the day. Maybe the rest of the month.’

  Season lifted her glass. The sun sparkled on the meniscus of the wine. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said, with an exaggeratedly flirtatious smile.

  *

  Morris Hunt, the governor of California, was presiding over an outdoor picnic lunch
that afternoon under the shady oaks of Mrs Irwin J. Harris’s garden in Santa Barbara. There was music from a small band on the verandah, all of them dressed in red-striped blazers and 1920s skimmers, and there were more flowers on the ladies’ hats than there were in the flower-beds. Across the immaculate lawns, sprinklers left a rainbow carpet of fresh dew. The picnic cost fifty dollars a plate, in aid of spina bifida children. Nine years ago, Morris Hunt’s own child had been crippled, and finally died, from spina bifida.

  A few minutes before Morris Hunt was expected to speak, a harassed-looking aide in a rumpled grey suit came hurrying across the grass and whispered in his ear. Morris Hunt frowned, and asked the aide something which nobody else could hear. The aide whispered in his ear again. Morris Hunt leaned over towards Mrs Irwin J. Harris, a strawberry-blonde lady in a huge fruit-bedecked hat, and it was clear that he was making his apologies.

  Inside the house, under an oil painting of the late Irwin J. Harris himself, the telephone was waiting on a polished walnut table. Morris Hunt, a dark-haired, serious-looking man of forty-five, with a striking resemblance to Douglas Fairbanks Junior, picked up the receiver and said, ‘Morris here. What’s wrong, Walter?’

  It was Walter Oppenheim, the chairman of the State Agricultural Committee, calling from Sacramento. He sounded breathless and harassed.

  ‘Morris, I’ve got some real disturbing news. I told my staff yesterday to call on every fruit and vegetable producer of any reasonable size throughout the state, just to check how they were coping with the blight The news is, it’s very bad. The report was completed ten minutes ago, and believe me, Morris, we’re going to lose eighty per cent of our produce this year unless we can halt this blight by the end of next week. It’s spreading so damned fast! One day there’s a field of lettuce, and the next day there’s nothing but brown splotches.’

  ‘Walter, I don’t believe what I’m hearing,’ said Morris Hunt. ‘Yesterday everybody was full of optimism. Oh, we might lose a quarter of our produce at the very worst! What’s happened since then?’

  ‘Nobody foresaw it spreading so fast,’ said Walter. ‘Jesus Christ, Morris, it didn’t even begin to appear at all before Monday or Tuesday. Now it’s Saturday, and already it’s wiped out a third of our fruit and vegetable produce.’

  ‘Has anybody got close to analysing it yet?’

  ‘Well, my own people at Fresno have been working on it pretty hard, but so far they don’t have any ideas at all.’

  ‘Have you kept in touch with Washington?’

  ‘Sure, I put in a call early this morning, and I’m going to call them again now. All I get is “we think we’ve nearly cracked it, and we’ll let you know.” They’ve been saying that since Wednesday.’

  Morris Hunt lowered his head. ‘You’re sure it’s going to be as serious as eighty per cent crop loss?’

  ‘Morris, it may be worse. We may lose everything.’

  ‘You know what that’s going to do to the state’s revenues, don’t you? Total bankruptcy. And that’s quite apart from the human problem we’re going to face.’

  Walter said uneasily, ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I’m going to fly back to Sacramento straight away. Tell Roger to call an emergency meeting for five o’clock, and to make sure that everybody attends. No exceptions. I want an assessment of the state’s food supply situation on my desk by four. Frozen foods, dried foods, canned foods – both private and military stocks. For God’s sake, though, don’t tell the media. Nobody at all. If it gets out that we’re thinking of rationing food there’s going to be anarchy.’

  ‘Okay, Morris,’ said Walter. ‘Will do.’

  Morris put down the phone and walked outside again. He crossed the lawn to the top table, and leaned over to Mrs Irwin J. Harris.

  ‘Mrs Harris,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid that some really ridiculous crisis has come up. I’m going to have to leave you straight away.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Mrs Harris. ‘You haven’t even eaten your pâté de foie!’

  Morris looked down at his plate, where a fresh-cut slice of pale pâté was waiting for him, dotted with truffles.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Harris,’ he said. ‘But I think I just lost my appetite.’

  *

  Karen Fortunoff sat on the upper balcony of Lake Vista, drinking champagne, eating dry-roasted cashew nuts, and watching a portable television which one of the Muldoon brothers had silently placed on a small table for her. It was hot on the Kansas plains, almost insufferably hot; but up here by the ink-blue waters of Fall River Lake, there was a refreshingly cool wind. Karen wore a one-piece swimsuit in electric blue satin, and a loose white summer wrap which she had bought especially for the week-end.

  A chubby, intent-looking man on the television was holding up a pack of indigestion tablets, and saying: ‘Acid indigestion? Over-eating? There’s only one sure way to feel better fast.’

  How right you are, thought Karen. All you have to do is let the worst crop blight in America’s history run riot – just long enough to gather in as much money as you possibly can from a spurious help-the-farmers appeal fund. That’s the sure way to cut out over-eating, particularly other people’s, and that’s certainly the way to feel better fast.

  She felt strangely confused emotions about Shearson Jones this afternoon. Last night, once everybody had showered and changed into formals, the staff of Lake Vista had laid on the kind of meal that Karen would have classified as a banquet, but which Shearson had simply dismissed as ‘supper.’ They had started off with soft-shelled crabs on toast, followed by chicken croquettes, lamb cutlets with tartare sauce, beef tongue in aspic, salads, fresh fruits, ices, cheeses, and liqueurs. She had watched in sheer amazement as Shearson Jones crammed his mouth with course after course, swilling his food down with mouthfuls of vintage French wines, and only a gentle kick under the table from Peter Kaiser had reminded her not to stare too intently at her host’s gastronomic enormities.

  Early this morning, wandering around the house on her own, she had asked one of the Muldoon brothers, as innocently as she could, if Lake Vista was stocked with sufficient food to see them through a period of shortage. The brother had grinned and taken her on a tour of the kitchens, where two Chinese chefs were kept constantly busy while Shearson was in residence. He had taken her, too, to the cold store, where beef and lamb and venison carcasses hung in hundreds; and to the wine cellars, which had been excavated almost a hundred and fifty feet into the rock.

  ‘We could live here for six months without ever going to a market once,’ said the Muldoon brother. ‘Even if we had the senator here, eating his usual five meals a day.’

  As Saturday wore on, though, Karen had grown increasingly restless and disappointed. Although she was impressed by the wealth and vulgarity of Shearson’s house, and by the greed of his lifestyle, she had expected him to invite at least one or two minor politicians to share his week-end in the Mid-West, or a movie star at the very worst. Instead, Shearson spent hour after hour closeted with Peter Kaiser, talking money and politics, and if anybody else was coming, there wasn’t any sign of them yet. Last night, Peter hadn’t come up to their balconied bedroom until way past three in the morning, and even though Karen had been reasonably encouraging, for the want of anybody else, he had fallen straight to sleep, and snored. He had been out of bed at six, and dressed, and his only amorous gesture had been to peck Karen on the cheek before he went downstairs to breakfast.

  Now he was back in conference with Shearson, and she didn’t expect to see him until dinner. She yawned, and in technological response, the television started a re-run of The African Queen.

  A voice said, ‘Hi.’

  She looked around. Stepping out on to the balcony came a tall, loose-limbed man in a short-sleeved white shirt and cream slacks. His hair was thick and wiry and black, his eyebrows shaggy, and his eyes as green as pistachio ice, with mint chips. He smiled at Karen, walked to the rail, and looked out over the lake.

  ‘Quite a romant
ic view you’ve got yourself up here,’ the man said.

  Karen shaded her eyes against the sun so that she could look at him. ‘It depends how romantic you’re feeling.’

  The man glanced at the television. ‘You sound as if you don’t feel romantic at all.’

  ‘I’m potentially romantic,’ she said. ‘It’s just that, around here, romance doesn’t seem to be written into the schedule. It’s either eating, or politics, or both.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound too much fun,’ said the man. ‘I only just arrived here. My name’s Ed Hardesty, by the way.’

  Karen held out her hand, and said, ‘Karen Fortunoff. Say – aren’t you the farmer? The one who’s supposed to be heading up the Blight Crisis Appeal?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Karen sat up straight. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘would you like a glass of champagne? I’ll have one of the Muldoons bring it up for you.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Ed. ‘I’ve got nothing on my hands but time. Della said I had to come out here this afternoon for a video test, but it looks like the TV people have gotten delayed.’

  ‘Well, that’s show business,’ said Karen. ‘Have you ever seen this house before? Isn’t it something else?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ed. ‘I’m kind of a traditionalist myself. My ideal home is one of those white antebellum mansions in Virginia, with the darkies singing sweet and low in the cottonfields.’

  Karen frowned at him. ‘You weren’t originally a farmer, were you? I mean, you don’t talk like a farmer.’

  ‘I was born on a farm, right here in Kansas. But I guess I’ve spent most of my intelligent life in New York City. I only came back here to take over the farm when my father and my older brother died.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

  Ed looked away. ‘It was a pretty hard knock. But at least I still own the land they gave their lives for. I guess it probably sounds sentimental to anyone else, but it’s given me the chance to build them some kind of memorial.’ Karen pressed the buzzer on the table for one of the Muldoons to come up. She scrunched up her eyes against the sunlight, and said, ‘That doesn’t sound sentimental at all. This blight must be hitting you pretty hard. Emotionally, as well as financially.’