it’s about Ungley,” Shandy began.
Svenson barked, “No.” There followed a brief silence, during which the president appeared to be mentally damping the fires under his interior lava dome. Then he uttered again.
“Claude.”
“Claude who?”
“Not Claude who. Who Claude. Bastard. Congress.”
“I understand, do I not, that you’re referring to State Representative Bertram G. Claude, that smarmy son-of-a-bitch who’s tried to vote down every pro-agriculture bill that’s been presented since he managed to buy his way into the State House.”
“Urrgh.”
“What about him?”
“Wants to campaign here.”
“Is he crazy? Our students would rotten-egg him straight out of the auditorium,”
“No.”
“But drat it, President—”
“Can’t let it happen.”
Thorkjeld Svenson fumed in silence a moment longer, then waxed, for him, loquacious. “Claude’s running against Peters.”
“For U.S. Congress. I know that. He must be out of his mind. Peters is a good man. Claude couldn’t beat him. Nobody could. Peters has been Balaclava’s man in the House of Representatives ever since Hector was a pup.”
“Longer. Lacks charisma.”
“What the flaming perdition do farmers need with charisma? Peters always votes on our side, doesn’t he? He’s introduced more sound farm legislation than anybody else there, hasn’t he? He fought like a tiger to get that agricultural aid program for small farmers through Congress, didn’t he? And he got it passed over the President’s veto, moreover. Peters may lack charisma, but he sure as hell doesn’t lack intelligence, integrity, or guts. Claude’s a yammering idiot, and a vicious one at that.”
“Yes.”
“Then what’s your problem? President, Balaclava Agricultural College stands for something in this congressional district. If we come out one hundred percent solid for Peters as we’ve always done before—”
“We’ll lose the election for him. We’ve been suckered, Shandy.”
“What?”
“That goddamn silo. Only time we ever accepted donations. Big fund drive. Public-spirited citizens of Balaclava County. Money pouring in from all directions. Pictures in Balaclava County Weekly Fane and Pennon. In one of ’em myself. With that blasted woman who started it all.”
“I know,” said Shandy.
How could one forget? The spectacle of Thorkjeld Svenson beside that dainty slip of femininity had looked like King Kong posing for a casual family photograph with Fay Wray. Shandy and his crony Timothy Ames had laughed themselves sick over it. “She was a Mrs. Somebody. Smith? Smythe? Smath?”
“Smuth. Ruth Smuth. One of those women who head committees. Urrgh! Sieglinde never heads committees.”
Sieglinde Svenson had a big enough job on her hands heading Thorkjeld, but Shandy didn’t say so. “Well, what about Ruth Smuth? She doesn’t come into the suckering, does she?”
“Hell she doesn’t. She’s Claude’s campaign manager.”
“Christ! But she wasn’t when we built the silo. Damn it, that was five years ago. She wasn’t involved with Claude then.”
“No. I checked her out, damn it. Checked the whole blasted committee. Not a smell of politics about one of ’em.”
“So where’s your problem?”
“She claims she was. Claims she told me at the time. Damn liar. If I’d ever so much as suspected Claude was behind that, silo, I’d have ripped it off its foundation and bashed him over the head with it.”
“M’well, that might still be a solution.”
“Too late,” croaked Svenson. “Goddamn it, Shandy, she’s put me in the same pants-down position as one of those poor slobs who picks up some respectable-looking woman along the road with a sob-story about car trouble, and then gets nailed for blackmail when she rips off her clothes and starts yelling rape. If we give Claude the horselaugh and come out swinging for Peters, she threatens to plaster that silo all over the papers, CORRUPTION ON CAMPUS. TURNCOAT SVENSON
Svenson barked, “No.” There followed a brief silence, during which the president appeared to be mentally damping the fires under his interior lava dome. Then he uttered again.
“Claude.”
“Claude who?”
“Not Claude who. Who Claude. Bastard. Congress.”
“I understand, do I not, that you’re referring to State Representative Bertram G. Claude, that smarmy son-of-a-bitch who’s tried to vote down every pro-agriculture bill that’s been presented since he managed to buy his way into the State House.”
“Urrgh.”
“What about him?”
“Wants to campaign here.”
“Is he crazy? Our students would rotten-egg him straight out of the auditorium,”
“No.”
“But drat it, President—”
“Can’t let it happen.”
Thorkjeld Svenson fumed in silence a moment longer, then waxed, for him, loquacious. “Claude’s running against Peters.”
“For U.S. Congress. I know that. He must be out of his mind. Peters is a good man. Claude couldn’t beat him. Nobody could. Peters has been Balaclava’s man in the House of Representatives ever since Hector was a pup.”
“Longer. Lacks charisma.”
“What the flaming perdition do farmers need with charisma? Peters always votes on our side, doesn’t he? He’s introduced more sound farm legislation than anybody else there, hasn’t he? He fought like a tiger to get that agricultural aid program for small farmers through Congress, didn’t he? And he got it passed over the President’s veto, moreover. Peters may lack charisma, but he sure as hell doesn’t lack intelligence, integrity, or guts. Claude’s a yammering idiot, and a vicious one at that.”
“Yes.”
“Then what’s your problem? President, Balaclava Agricultural College stands for something in this congressional district. If we come out one hundred percent solid for Peters as we’ve always done before—”
“We’ll lose the election for him. We’ve been suckered, Shandy.”
“What?”
“That goddamn silo. Only time we ever accepted donations. Big fund drive. Public-spirited citizens of Balaclava County. Money pouring in from all directions. Pictures in Balaclava County Weekly Fane and Pennon. In one of ’em myself. With that blasted woman who started it all.”
“I know,” said Shandy.
How could one forget? The spectacle of Thorkjeld Svenson beside that dainty slip of femininity had looked like King Kong posing for a casual family photograph with Fay Wray. Shandy and his crony Timothy Ames had laughed themselves sick over it. “She was a Mrs. Somebody. Smith? Smythe? Smath?”
“Smuth. Ruth Smuth. One of those women who head committees. Urrgh! Sieglinde never heads committees.”
Sieglinde Svenson had a big enough job on her hands heading Thorkjeld, but Shandy didn’t say so. “Well, what about Ruth Smuth? She doesn’t come into the suckering, does she?”
“Hell she doesn’t. She’s Claude’s campaign manager.”
“Christ! But she wasn’t when we built the silo. Damn it, that was five years ago. She wasn’t involved with Claude then.”
“No. I checked her out, damn it. Checked the whole blasted committee. Not a smell of politics about one of ’em.”
“So where’s your problem?”
“She claims she was. Claims she told me at the time. Damn liar. If I’d ever so much as suspected Claude was behind that, silo, I’d have ripped it off its foundation and bashed him over the head with it.”
“M’well, that might still be a solution.”
“Too late,” croaked Svenson. “Goddamn it, Shandy, she’s put me in the same pants-down position as one of those poor slobs who picks up some respectable-looking woman along the road with a sob-story about car trouble, and then gets nailed for blackmail when she rips off her clothes and starts yelling rape. If we give Claude the horselaugh and come out swinging for Peters, she threatens to plaster that silo all over the papers, CORRUPTION ON CAMPUS. TURNCOAT SVENSON
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