Moo (11 page)

Upon Chairman X certain words and phrases had a noticeable electrifying effect: “world market”—he writhed; “surprising decline”—his mouth gaped in a silent scream; “export of tropical hardwoods”—his feet began a tattoo on the hardwood floor. At “cash crop” he leaned over so far toward Cecelia that he nearly fell out of his chair. Cecelia heaved him upright. He muttered, “Sorry,” and subsided until the chart came out, when Cecelia began to feel his chair rock against hers. By this time, however, she had decided that he must be the unfortunate victim of some sort of illness, possibly Tourette’s syndrome. One cousin of her former husband had been thus afflicted, and Cecelia had come to like him very much, and hardly notice the outbursts. And so it was that the more explosive Chairman X became, the more sympathetic Cecelia became, thinking of that cousin, and how she had lost touch with him since her divorce.

In spite of this distraction, Cecelia was enjoying the lecture. Although she hadn’t actually been to Costa Rica since before she could remember, a trip there, an extended visit, was one of her happiest plans, a delicious present for herself and her mother, as certain as if it had already been bought and put away. It would be no hasty sojourn or ill-thought-out vacation, but a progress of delight and enlightenment, the fabled tropical sights alternating with invigorating visits to relatives. Cecelia was confident both that she would come up with the money before too long and that her mother would let go of her strange reluctance to make the trip (“Of course I want to see them,” she always said, “but it’s so far away. There’s so much to do here. Your father—”). Dr. Gift’s words were very dry, not at all evocative
of the deep green cloud forest Cecelia could not remember, or the fragrances of the hillsides she knew she would recognize when she made her return. Dr. Gift didn’t make it sound like what it was, which was a place much more splendid than anywhere else. It was hard to believe what the program said, that he visited there regularly.

Irritated, Cecelia looked around. Most of the students sat upright but removed, like horses asleep on their feet in a field. Their pencils had fallen out of their hands, and their notes drifted to an end about a quarter of the way down the first page. It was always true, Cecelia thought, that ignorance was the prime element of boredom. She sighed. The lecture also made her think of her mother in Los Angeles, the way, over the years, the extra effort of living there seemed to have taxed every part of her—her spirits, her temper, her warmth, her looks. Dora Sanchez did not thrive in L.A. Cecelia thought her habitual thought about the calming and rejuvenating effect of the trip. She would bring it up at Christmas. This time she would really—

A
ND WHAT WERE
the lessons of development in Costa Rica? Dr. Gift swelled his oratory to a preacherly roundness. First and foremost, RATIONAL coordination of a nation’s local market mechanisms with world market mechanisms worked to the mutual satisfaction of everyone’s demands—which in theoretical terms were, of course, insatiable—and the local officials were capable of acting RATIONALLY once principles were explained to them. Second, the control of the international monetary community reenforced the RATIONALIZATION of an individual nation’s choices, working to bring it into the fold. Third (and here he looked to the eight-man gallery seated between the provost and the president), the greatest single component in the growth of any small nation was the RATIONAL investment of well-run corporations. As one man, the gallery nodded with measured agreement. Fourth (and here he looked at the assembled customers), there was a world of opportunity out there for an enterprising young American man (he looked at the customers again and made a quick recount) or young American woman. He quoted one of their songs: “The future’s so bright, I’ve got to wear shades,” thus startling the students into embarrassed laughter. Thank you.

Chairman X shot like a rocket out of his seat, not just to ask a question, but also to relieve the buildup of frustration. He had not actually formulated his question beyond “What kind of ignorant asshole
are you?” but Gift’s gaze turned his way, and he knew he would be called upon as soon as the applause died down. The room was warm. He tugged at the collar of his shirt. He knew he was going to sound shrill and IRRATIONAL, that he was going to fail in speaking for his cause and in fact speak against his cause, because even if his words came out ordered and reasonable, his face would be red, the emotion in his voice would be readily apparent, and anyway, he was so well known around the campus as a crackpot that his opinions would be discounted as soon as he opened his mouth. Gift said, “There. In the middle,” and Chairman X knew that was him. He opened his mouth, curious to see what would come out. He heard himself say, mildly, “What have been the effects of this development on Costa Rica’s natural biological systems?”

“Very much within the bounds of acceptable exploitation, even positive, as sectors which have no value become valuable through use.”

“But how much has been lost?”

“Nothing has been lost, but a great deal has been gained. Let’s allow some of the others to speak, shall we. Back in the back there.”

Allowing the others to speak was fine with Chairman X, who was choking with rage and seeing a reddish fog enclose him from both sides. He sat down and attempted to slow his breathing. This would, possibly, be the occasion of his first stroke. The Lady X had begged him not to come, to avoid, as she said, the occasion of sin, but he had to hear what they were saying, how they were presenting themselves. The red fog cleared. The lovely woman next to him said, “I thought that was a good question. Thank you for asking it,” and her voice soothed him. “My mother’s family is from Costa Rica.” He looked at her and she smiled ruefully. “I don’t think they’ve participated much in the general rise.”

Across the room, Ivar Harstad tried to pick the back of Chairman X’s head out of the crowd. He seemed to be sitting beside that new woman in Foreign Languages. Ivar, too, had appreciated the question, and considered Gift’s reply evasive, probably owing to ignorance. Was there a grant in there somewhere? Ivar took out his notebook and wrote a tiny little note to himself to call the horticulture department in the morning.

A
RLEN
M
ARTIN WAS
a little Texan with jug ears who was worth a billion dollars and it both surprised the provost that he had turned up and didn’t surprise him at all. It certainly did not surprise him that he had turned up in the company of Elaine Dobbs-Jellinek, who probably didn’t know about the ten-year-old scandal, and might not have cared if she had known. Arlen Martin’s name was one the provost had not written down, nor even spoken aloud in his ruminations over corporate grantors, but it had been in his mind, and clearly that was enough.

Elaine had a theatrical way about her. In her three years as associate vice-president for development, her wardrobe had grown progressively more flamboyant in color and cut, so that now she looked just like a TV anchorwoman. Each year she was thinner, too, magnifying the similarity. And each year she travelled farther afield, looking for funding. She knew exactly what she was doing, what those executives in Fayetteville and Tulsa would be impressed with.

Arlen Martin, though, was a horse of a different color. He had risen through so many social classes, and travelled through so many latitudes and longitudes that he was comfortable with everyone. And he was so rich, anyway, that the duty of accommodation fell to others, not him. Ivar stood up and came around his desk, hand extended. Elaine Dobbs-Jellinek exclaimed, “Ivar, Arlen says no introductions needed!” Clearly, she viewed this as a compliment.

“No,” said Ivar, “I remember Mr. Martin very well. How are you, sir?”

“Now don’t ‘sir’ me, Dr. Harstad. I know perfectly well who here has a high school diploma and who here has a pee aitch dee!” Elaine laughed hysterically at this joke. Mrs. Walker’s face, where she stood beside the doorway, was impassive, her “Indian” face. Not many people knew that Mrs. Walker was half Menominee, but Ivar did. It was the half of her that he was most intimidated by. Mrs. Walker
knew all about the scandal, probably more about it than Ivar did. Ivar said, nervously, “Well, sit down for a few minutes, Arlen. Elaine?”

“Wait till you hear, Ivar. Something very exciting is about to happen.”

Hmmph, said Mrs. Walker, or rather, without speaking, she launched this hmmph into the air of the room and allowed it to float there. Elaine’s womanly response was an even brighter smile. Like everyone else on the campus, Elaine didn’t dare underestimate Mrs. Walker. Arlen, however, did. He said, “Well, I could use a cup of coffee, Ivar. I’m dry as a bleached bone. How about having your girl bring some in.”

Elaine coughed, then said, “Let me get it, Mrs. Walker.”

“Nah,” said Arlen, “I need you here for support. Dr. Ivar Harstad, well—”

“I’ll get it,” said Mrs. Walker in her most deadly voice.

“Good, good, good,” carolled Arlen, with just the cheery insouciance of a character in a horror movie who must die a horrible death within ten minutes. Mrs. Walker retreated and closed the door behind her.

Ivar was resolved not to get involved with Arlen Martin under any circumstances. It was clear he was no longer in chickens, but he had been ten years before, and he had given a grant to the university for the purpose of investigating the health effects on chickens of a diet made up partially of dead chicken offal—ground-up bone meal, ground-up dried blood and innards, and feathers, etc. In his many chicken factories at the time, the chicken cutters sent the wings, breasts, thighs, and legs to the supermarket and everything else to the rendering facility, where it was ground, cooked, and mixed with grains and prophylactic drugs. It was a practice widespread in England, where Arlen also had chicken factories, but frowned upon by the USDA. A study showing wholesomeness was just the ticket, and a professor in Animal Science had signed on. When the study showed that both the eggs and the killed carcasses of the chickens on the Martin diet showed higher levels of salmonella contamination that could not be satisfactorily controlled by antibiotics also added to the feed, the first thing Ivar had done was to give up eating chicken.

Arlen had assumed that the study would remain unpublished, and asserted himself to realize his assumption. Jolly to the end, he had attempted to destroy the reputation not only of the scientist who had
received the grant, but also of the graduate student who had helped him and the journal who had published the results. An addition to the library he had planned to fund had disappeared from the drawing board. Had it been built, Ivar thought, it would have disappeared from the campus. The faculty at large had taken the moral high ground, one of their normal perks as a faculty, and strongly disapproved of Ivar’s every attempt to find a compromise. There had been a vote in the faculty senate, condemning him and calling for his ouster, which had not passed, but had hurt more than his reputation.

The study had been published.

Other studies discrediting that study had been published very quickly thereafter.

The USDA had, albeit reluctantly, approved the Martin system of chicken feeding.

A salmonella scandal had hit the British egg industry.

Ivar had stopped eating eggs as well as chicken.

Arlen Martin had risen above chickens, spent two years as the American ambassador to Switzerland, and returned to buy up some companies and double his net worth.

You could not call them friends, but as Arlen himself had once said to Ivar, “You and I are closer than you think. Someday you’re going to look at me, and I will look just as familiar to you as your oldest pal, and you’ll kind of like me, after all. Just you wait and see.”

And it was true. For all his resolve, Ivar felt no personal aversion to Arlen Martin.

Martin said, “I hear you got a budget shortfall of seven million.”

“We are laboring under some budgetary constraints, but there are no actual”—he cleared his throat—“cutbacks as yet.”

“Mmmm hmm.”

“I don’t think we have to take the unrealistically optimistic view with Mr. Martin, here, Ivar. He knows what there is to know.”

“Well, Elaine,” said Ivar, “that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Waters’ son dates my daughter, you know,” said Arlen. “Met at college, out there. Princeton.”

Waters was the vice-chairman of the state board of governors. Ivar nodded.

“Now, the thing is, I know you guys skim a percentage right off the top, and I don’t mind that. I recognize that you can’t do good research if you don’t keep up the physical plant, and I know a lump sum over here bumps some general funds over to here, and so on.
Accounting is accounting, and I define accounting as an art rather than a science.”

Elaine laughed again.

“You know, we’ve brought six companies under the TransNational wing in the last six years, some big, some not so big. That gives us control of eleven diverse companies in all, and, of course, a goodly debt. Not much left over for research and development, for, let’s say, the physical plant aspects, and the personnel. So I look around me, and I say, who’s got the physical plant and the personnel, and I don’t have to look far, do I?”

Ivar, whose nodding agreement had become unpleasantly rhythmic, said, “No, probably not,” and consciously stilled his head.

“Our interests continue to coincide, Dr. Harstad. I got hybrid seeds, you got plant genetics. I got steel roller mills, you got materials science and industrial engineering. I got airplane engine parts, you got aerospace engineering. I got chickens, beef, and llamas, you got animal science. I got a chemical company that specializes in pesticides, you got entomology. I got a big accounting and PR firm, you got a business school. Are you catching my meaning, Dr. Harstad? Why should I hire R and D people just to read what your R and D people already know?”

“Of course,” said Ivar.

“Your own governor says that alliances between education and business are the wave of the future, Dr. Harstad.”