The Ninth Wave (27 page)

"Yes," Mike said softly. "I know that."
"Today there is no competition and because there is no competition the
rewards have been narrowed down. Few people fail, but also everyone makes
much less." Blenner paused and looked at the ceiling again. "Understand,
Mr. Freesmith, I don't object to this. People can do whatever they want.
I'm not a crusader. I don't want to change anything."
"What do you want?" Mike asked.
"Just to know the rules," Blenner said. With his eyes closed he smiled.
"And then to do the best thing under the rules. See, I liked the rules
of the old game. It seemed to me that there was a kind of hard justice
about the most inefficient producer being always forced out of the
game. But then they changed the rules. Not much, just a little. They
asked that the inefficient producer be protected. It took a little time
for me to realize that this made it a new game. You see, Mr. Freesmith,
I'm an old-fashioned person."
He laughed; a clear trilling laugh, a sound of pure joy.
"Now that you know the new rules, what do you want to do?" Mike asked.
"I want to play inside the rules and make the best profit possible,"
Blenner said. "That's all. Just make the best legitimate profit that
can be made."
"I still don't see why you came to me," Mike said.
"Because I want to go into farming," Blenner said.
Mike said nothing because he could think of nothing to say.
"You see, under the new rules, farming or just owning agricultural land
is the best investment you can have," Blenner went on. "Strange things
have happened, Mr. Freesmith. Thirty years ago the farmers were in a bad
way. They started to elect congressmen and senators and governors who
would help them. First, they asked for cheap farm loans and then they
asked for a guaranteed price and then they asked for a regulated market.
Finally they got all of that. Finally they got it to the point where the
farmer could actually get paid for producing nothing." Blenner opened
his eye, rolled it in wonder. "Imagine that~ Imagine being paid for
producing nothing. Just for promising not to produce corn or wheat or
cotton you get paid. The farmers are the winners under the new rules. It's
impossible for them to lose."
"But a lot of farmers still go broke," Mike said uncertainly.
"You're right. It's incredible, but they do. They're the ones who buy
new Cadlilacs with their winter wheat or build a big new house or buy two
tractors when they only need one. Those are the ones who go broke. It's
hard to do it, but some people manage. Some people just work at being
fools. Even with everything designed to prevent them from going broke
they go broke. But it doesn't happen often, Mr. Freesmith. And then you
have to remember that the farmers who do go broke don't have capital. I'll
have capital."
"I'm not an expert on farming, Mr. Blenner, but it was my impression
that the government supports were designed to help the small farmer,"
Mike said.
Blenner sat up straight in his chair and opened both of his eyes. His
large white hands caressed the smooth nap of the derby hat. He smiled
a withered, slight smile at Mike.
"I came to see you for two reasons, Mr. Freesmith," Blenner said and
his voice was slower, more precise. "First, because they tell me that
you are a clear-sighted person and you learn new things very fast. And
secondly they tell me that you aren't committed to anyone; no political
party or company or individual."
Blenner paused, but this time Mike did not speak and the silence grew
long. The girl turned and looked carefully at Mike. Finally Blenner spoke.
"You could do two things for me, Mr. Freesmith," Blenner said and his
voice was subtly reproving. "First, you could learn something about
farm lands in California. How much they cost, what they could grow,
that sort of thing."
"I'm not interested," Mike said. "I don't know anything about farm lands
and don't want to."
"And the second thing you could do is have the agricultural laws changed,"
Blenner said, ignoring Mike's remark. "Not a lot. Nothing illegal. But
just enough so the big landowner would get the same treatment from the
government as the small landowner. That's all."
"I don't want to be a lobbyist," Mike said.
Mike picked up a folder, tapped it on the desk. He hoped they would leave.
Blenner looked at the folder, smiled and closed his eyes again.
"I don't want you to become a lobbyist," Blenner said softly and this
time there was something cold in his voice and Mike knew he was being
warned. "It just occurred to me that if your colleague, Mr. Cromwell,
became governor of the state he would be in a good position to help out."
Mike looked at Blenner's daughter. Her lips were slightly open as if she
were surprised at Mike. It was a curious expression; mostly admiration,
but also something of fright. Mike looked at Blenner and now the small,
well-tailored, neat, poised man looked powerful and ominous; almost
reptilian.
"Maybe you had better talk to Mr. Cromwell," Mike said. "I didn't know
he wanted to be governor."
"I understand that he takes your advice on such matters," Blenner said and
again his voice was warning. He took an envelope out of his coat pocket
and tapped it against his fingernails. "I'll be frank with you. This
envelope contains a very brief report. The report indicates under what
circumstances Mr. Cromwell could be elected governor of California. The
report states that he has a following among a number of small groups
in California. He is weak among Democratic leaders, but if he could get
the nomination and all other things were equal he would win."
"What if all other things were not equal?" Mike said. Mike said it
protectively, to gain time. For the back of his throat had suddenly gone
dry. He sensed that Blenner had the secret, had stumbled upon it somehow.
Go slowly now, cautiously, easy, Mike said to himself.
"Can you think of many things that money could not make equal?" Blenner
asked. "If Cromwell had ample money, that would equalize things, wouldn't
it?"
"It would help," Mike said. "But why don't you talk to one of the big
people in the Democratic Party? You know there are a number of other
people who are considered to be much better risks for the governorship
than Cromwell."
"That's why I don't want them," Blenner said. "A good risk always pays
a low profit. I'd rather take a risk . . . maybe the rewards would be
larger." Blenner opened one eye and with that single eye he regarded
Mike as an equal, was completely frank, open. "And besides, the prominent
candidates are already committed to other people. I would not like that."
You son of a bitch, you lizard-looking, ugly dwarf, Mike thought. You've
figured it all out. It took me years to work it out and you come in here
with the whole thing down in a white envelope.
Rage rose in Mike, hot as a fever. But he forced himself to calmness.
"Who wrote the report?" Mike said.
"My son."
"Politics is complicated," Mike said. "It's easy to make mistakes. Things
don't work out neatly."
"I know that," Blenner said. "But I don't act on bad advice and I'm
prepared for things to be difficult. You can take care of the difficult
things. I'll supply the money and whatever influence I have. We would
not need to sign an agreement or anything like that. We would merely
trust one another."
"I'll talk it over with Mr. Cromwell," Mike said.
"Fine. You do that," Blenner said.
He jumped out of his chair, stuck the derby on his head. He shook hands
with Mike and his hand was cool, firm and uncomfortably strong. His
daughter followed him to the door. He turned.
"You ought to get out and look at some farm lands," Blenner said. "Start
to get the feel of the thing. "Then you could talk things over with my
son. You won't be seeing much of me anyway."
"I'd like to go along with him," the daughter said suddenly. "I know
the country around Los Angeles. I'd like to do it."
Blenner looked at his daughter and his eyes were utterly bored. He
shrugged his shoulders and looked at Mike.
"I'll give you a call," Mike said. "If we decide to do it, I'll buzz you."
The girl smiled and then quickly followed her father
out of the office. Mike noticed that she limped slightly.
CHAPTER 17
The Ocean and the Desert
Georgia Blenner called Mike four days later.
"I've found some farming land," she said. Her voice was cool and unexcited.
"Would you like to go look at it? I've arranged to pick up an agricultural
expert from the University to give us some advice. Could you go this
afternoon?"
"I can get free, but I don't want an expert along."
"Why not?"
"All an expert can do is tell you what worked in the past. They're
always too conservative. Always hedging; afraid they'll hurt their
reputation. The time for experts is later."
Georgia laughed.
"All right," she said. "We won't take the expert. Can you meet me at
Karl's Drive-in on Wilshire . . . out by Westwood? Around one-thirty?"
"Sure. I'll be there," Mike said.
When he put the phone down, he leaned back in his chair. He hadn't talked
to Cromwell about Blenner's proposal. He knew he would not. He also knew
that he would go along with Blenner.
It isn't the money, Mike thought. We can win without Blenner's money. But
it was the crazy idea about going into farming. it was a little fishhook
of curiosity that sunk into his flesh; a curious little gnaw of interest.
She was sitting in the drive-in drinking coffee when he drove up. She
saw him through the plate-glass window and walked out to meet him. She
was tall and she walked with a peculiar gait. It gave her a coltish,
angular appearance, although she had very full breasts and round hips. She
opened the door and got in the car.
"The land is out in the San Fernando Valley," she said. "Why don't you
drive out Wilshire to the coast and then over Tujunga to the valley?"
"It's shorter to go over Sepulveda," Mike said.
"I know that. But I like to drive along the ocean. It's warmer too."
She turned and looked at him. She had a large mouth with fine white
teeth. When she smiled she brought her lips quickly back over her
teeth, with the curious sharpness that little girls have when they wear
braces. Her hair was very black and cut short. Her skin was white; the
sort of white that never tans, although she had a pattern of freckles
across her nose. "I'm cold most of the time. I had polio when I was a
kid and although the doctors say it's impossible, I've been cold ever
since. I like the sun."
That explains her gait, Mike thought. She never recovered from the polio.
She must be a little paralyzed.
They did not speak as they went through the heavy traffic around
Westwood. They drove by the big new Robinson store and the sleek modern
apartment houses of Westwood. The traffic moved in great slooping rushes
from one signal to another, like a flight of orderly birds. The fast
drivers slid in and out, jockeyed for position, and between each signal
gained a place or two. As they went up the hills of Westwood they could
see other platoons of cars ahead of them, marked off by signal lights,
moving rhythmically up the soaring strip of highway.
They went through Westwood Village, past the golf range which was
crowded with people driving balls. On the other side of the highway was
the Veterans' Cemetery, and behind the hedges the little white crosses,
broken by an occasional Star of David, ran in perfectly straight lines
until they shattered against a hillside.
They stopped at a light and Mike watched a little group of veterans
walk out from among the palm trees that bordered the Veterans' Hospital
and stand on the curb. One of them was wearing a bathrobe and slippers.
His bathrobe was open and the sun splintered on the gray wiry hair on his
chest. The neck of a bottle showed in the pocket of the bathrobe. They
were all slightly drunk and they stared brazenly, defiantly at the cars.
"How they hate dying in Southern California," Georgia said.
Mike looked around, startled. His eyes went over the veterans, swept
up the long reach of green lawn, glanced at the other cars. His face
was blank.
"Who hates to die in Southern Galifornia?" he asked.
"Those veterans," Georgia said. "That little bunch of them standing
there. See the one with the bottle in his bathrobe pocket? He wants to
shock the people going by in their new cars and they don't even look
at him. He's mad.".
The veteran in the bathrobe saw them looking at him and grinned
crookedly. He pulled the bottle out of his pocket and unscrewed the
top. He put it to his mouth, his eyes glaring at them. When he threw
his head back, the cords in his neck drew the red wrinkled flesh tight.
He looked like a person who had once been very fat and now hated being
skinny.
The signal changed and their platoon of cars picked up speed; in a
collective spasm they rushed toward the next signal.
"How do you know they hate it here?" Mike asked.
"How do you know anything? I guess by looking at them. I think the
sunshine and palm trees and salt air frustrates them. When you're dying
you ought to be in a cold, dreary climate. It would make it easier. They
ought to build the veterans' hospitals in the mountains and out on the
deserts . . . where it's lonely and bleak. It must be hard to sit around
in the sun and watch people going by in sport shirts and know you're
going to die."
She paused, looking quickly at Mike and then went on. "When I was little
and read all the adventure books, I used to think it would be easier
to die in the freezing Arctic, like Scott and those people. It must
be easier to die in a harsh climate, a cruel place. This is a terrible
place to die."
"I never thought about it before," Mike said slowly. "I've been by
this hospital a thousand times and I never noticed them. That's funny,
isn't it?"
"Not many people do notice them, I guess," Georgia said. "After a while
they become just like the palm trees or fire hydrants. You just don't
see the individuals anymore."
At the next stop signal, Mike looked over at Georgia. She was sitting
very straight in the seat, looking out the window. She glanced quickly
from one object to another. He guessed that she was twenty-two years old.