“Why, Marty! I would think you’d have worked in Washington long enough to know that senators are born obstinate. That’s why they gravitate toward becoming senators. Too obstinate and stubborn and bull-headed to go into something sensible when they mature, like plumbing or home videonics.”
“But, dammit, Dave, all the indications—everything the computers and the guys in the office have been able to put together—point to the Islas San Benitos as the perfect spot for establishing the first yellowtail fishery. All we have to do is attract a natural seed crop there hi the first place. You know we can’t plant an ocean locale the way we do Lake Ontario or Ta-hoe. The tuna would never spawn there, they’d just swim away. We’ve got to generate a major influx of food fish.”
“And that’s just your problem, Marty,” agreed Wheeling, deciding on a seven-iron. “Senator Petterson has constituents who depend on those food fish. Existing yellowtail don’t vote, let alone imaginary ones.”
“But anyone who can just take the time to analyze
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our figures, Dave—” He stopped and watched with distaste as his companion’s ball landed short, bounced over the shoulder and onto the green. They moved to search for his own ball.
“Well, you’d better think of something fast if you expect to get that gate this year,” warned Wheeling. “Last I heard, the School was passing L.A.”
“Newport Beach,” Fowler grumbled. “Look, you be there at the committee meeting tomorrow.”
Wheeling eyed his friend with a compassion that reached beyond sympathy for his bad lie. “You never give up, do you, Marty? I’m telling you, you can bury Petterson under a ton of influence and favorable figures. But all the maybes and probablys and could-bes in the world won’t convince a politician with hungry people to feed—”