“On foot. I took samples of earth, corn, other samples.”
“Such as?”
“Water. Botanicals. Insects. Scientific samples. Things you wouldn’t understand, Mr. Pendergast.”
“What day, exactly, was this?”
“I’d have to check my diary.”
Pendergast folded his arms, waiting.
Scowling, Dr. Chauncy fished into his pocket, pulled out a diary, flipped the pages. “June eleven.”
“And did you see anything unusual? Out of the ordinary?”
“As I’ve said, I saw nothing.”
“Tell me, what
Chauncy drew himself up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pendergast, but these scientific concepts are rather too complex for a non-scientist to comprehend. It’s pointless to answer questions along that line.”
Pendergast smiled in a self-deprecating way. “Well, then, perhaps you could simplify it in a way that any idiot could understand.”
“I suppose I could try. We’re trying to develop a strain of corn for gasohol production—you know what that is?”
Pendergast nodded.
“We need a strain that has high starch content and that produces a natural pesticide which eliminates the need for external pesticides. There’s the idiot explanation, Mr. Pendergast. I trust you followed it.” He gave a quick smile.
Pendergast leaned forward slightly, his face assuming a blank expression. He reminded Corrie of a cat about to pounce. “Dr. Chauncy, how do you plan to prevent cross-pollination? If your genetic strain escaped into this sea of corn around us, there would be no way of putting the genie back into the bottle, so to speak.”
Chauncy looked disconcerted. “We’ll create a buffer zone. We’ll plough a hundred-foot strip around the field and plant alfalfa.”
“And yet, Addison and Markham, in a paper published in the April 2002 issue of the
“I’m familiar with the paper!” Chauncy said.
“And then you must also know of the work of Engels, Traumerai, and Green, which demonstrated that the 3PJ-Strain 5 genetically modified plant produced a pollen toxic to monarch butterflies. Are you by chance working with the 3PJ strain?”
“Yes, but monarch mortality only occurs in concentrations greater than sixty pollen grains per square millimeter—”
“Which is present within at least three hundred yards downwind of the field, according to a University of Chicago study published in the
“I know the bloody paper! You don’t have to cite it to me!”
“Well, then, Dr. Chauncy. I ask again: how are you going to prevent cross-pollination, and how are you going to protect the local butterfly population?”
“That’s what this whole experiment is all about, Pendergast! Those are the
“So Medicine Creek will be, in effect, a guinea pig location to test possible solutions to these problems?”
For a moment, Chauncy spluttered, unable to reply. He looked apoplectic. Corrie could see he had lost it completely. “Why should I have to justify my important work to a—a—a fucking
There was a silence as Chauncy breathed heavily, the sweat pouring off his brow and creeping through the underarms of his suit jacket.
Pendergast turned to Corrie. “I think we’re done here. Did you get it all down, Miss Swanson?”
“Everything, sir, right down to the ‘fucking cop.’ ” She slapped the notebook shut with a satisfying crack and jammed the pen into one of her leather pockets, then gave the group at the table a broad smile. Pendergast nodded, turned to go.
“Pendergast,” Ridder said. His voice was low and very, very cold. Despite herself, Corrie shivered when she saw the look on his face.
Pendergast stopped. “Yes?”
Ridder’s eyes glittered like mica. “You’ve disturbed our lunch and agitated our guest. Isn’t there something you ought to say to him before you leave?”
“I don’t believe so.” Pendergast seemed to consider a moment. “Unless, perhaps, it is a quotation from Einstein: ‘The only thing more dangerous than ignorance is arrogance.’ I would suggest to Dr. Chauncy that in combination, the two qualities are even more alarming.”
Corrie followed Pendergast out through the darkened bowling alley and into the strong sun. As they climbed into the car she couldn’t hold herself back any longer and laughed.
Pendergast looked at her. “Amused?”
