LITMIR.BIZ

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not covet thy neighbour’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour’s.’ Being as how I don’t have a wife or an ox or an ass, and being as how my employees are more like family than servants, it’s the part about the house that troubles me—the house and the field-land that goes with it. And lest you take me too lightly, ladies and gentlemen, be advised that I am on my guard against schemers and blasphemers, fornicators and flim-flam-mers.” He stopped again, wracked by a fit of coughing. Myrtle Sweet stepped forward with a glass of water, but even as he sipped at it, his eyes surveyed his audience.

      When he had recovered sufficiently to continue, he said, “Eric, would you fetch me a tissue, please.” He cleared his throat. “You might be curious, ladies and gentlemen, about the presence in your midst of two dusky strangers. Their names are Kevin and Eric Favors, though which is which is a puzzle to anyone unfamiliar with them. They are identical in appearance, but in every other way they are as different as night and day. Kevin, who is manning the camera, is a devout Christian, like myself, who reads his Bible every night and who believes in turning the other cheek. He is a diplomat and a negotiator. He is a gentleman, God bless, but he is loyal to me and would, if necessary, use his considerable strength to protect me. Eric, on the other hand, couldn’t give two hoots about the Bible. He would just as soon smite you as smile at you. He has the instincts of a beast of the fields, but he knows who feeds him and shelters him, and so he is loyal to me just as his brother is. The distinction between them is plain: where Kevin would take no pleasure in hurting you, Eric would. I do not speak of Eric this way because he’s off finding me something to wipe my nose with; even if he were here, he wouldn’t object. He’s devoted to me, as is Kevin. Together, they are my muscle. They may exhibit a calm and quiet demeanor, but don’t be fooled: they’re as deadly as vipers. If murderous thoughts lurk at the back of your mind, if any among you would steal my purse, be forewarned: I am prepared; I am protected. Ah, here we are.”

      A black hand proffered a yellow Kleenex box. “Thank you, Eric.” The old man blew his nose vigorously.

      “But beg pardon, I’ve been yammering away like an old woman up here. If no one objects, I’ll hear each of you out as you present your arguments. I am curious as to the various purposes to which my small empire might be put. I know that among you we have a real estate developer, an ornithologist, a horticulturalist, and a businessman who works with the Internet. I know what the first three do, but I’m not so sure about the Internet; is it some new-fangled kind of fishing tackle?”

      More laughter could be heard.

      “Mr. Richard Ludlow,” the old man said, “if you’re with us this evening, please approach the podium.” As his eyes followed a progress in front of him, he said, “I hope you will not be discomfited by the presence of the camera, ladies and gentlemen, but for my own peace of mind I am recording the events of the evening. Consider it a form of insurance. If I appear not to trust you, it is because, quite frankly, I don’t. You would rob me in my sleep if you could. Should anything untoward befall me in the future, this film will at least provide the police with something to go on.”

      The camera zoomed out to accommodate the arrival of a middle-aged man—tall, ruddy-cheeked, silver-haired, immaculately dressed.

      “According to my information, sir,” Morley Rogers said, “you are a real estate developer and a man of vast commercial experience. I hope you don’t think me presumptuous if I ask you to go first, to set an example, so to speak, with respect to briefs and how they are presented. Please sir, say your piece.”

      Ludlow’s face was tanned and handsome, his manner assured. “Mr. Rogers, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “my proposal is simple: I want to convert these twelve acres into a condominium complex adjacent to the fourteenth tee of the golf course. At present, the land is unused, indeed unusable. It is marshy and buggy; it contains nothing but bulrushes and blackbirds. If my plan is accepted, hundreds of truckloads of clean fill will convert this area into a thriving micro-community of upwards of two hundred people. Think, Mr. Rogers, of the economic boost such a project would provide. Not to mention the humanitarian angle. There are a great many people living in congested, polluted areas of Toronto who would give their eye teeth to live out here in the fresh air and the countryside—”

      “Point of clarification!” a voice from the audience shouted. The camera rotated to reveal a row of people seated in front of a jungle scene. A pale, balding man was standing up in front of his chair. He was dressed in paint-stained jeans and an old cardigan and clutched a fuming pipe in one hand. “Mr. Rogers, your twelve acres are neither unused nor unusable,” he said in an unmistakably British accent. “They are the natural habitat of a variety of endangered birds. It is our duty to protect our avian population, a threatened population—”

      “Oh please,” Ludlow could be heard to say, “spare us the sermon.”

      “—that includes the King Rail, the Least Bittern, the Loggerhead Shrike, Kirtland’s Warbler, the Hooded Warbler, and the Prothonotary Warbler. Corporate greed has already eliminated most of the wetlands in our vicinity, and—”

      A banging sound was heard, and the focus of the camera returned to the front of the solarium where Morley Rogers was banging a garden trowel against one of the handlebars of his walker. “Sit down, both of you!” he shouted hoarsely. “You’re both out of order. Mr. Ludlow, you use the word sermon as if it were an obscenity, and you—Mr. Smith-Gower, I presume—you call yourself a naturalist, an environmentalist, an ornithologist, yet you smoke that filthy pipe in a room full of orchids! Sit down, both of you!”

      Ludlow opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head, smiled ruefully at the camera, and disappeared from view.

      “Next!” Morley Rogers demanded.

      A chair could be heard scraping, then the clip-clop-ping of high-heeled shoes.

      The carefully coiffed woman who appeared on screen placed a pair of decorator bifocals on her nose, cleared her throat, and said, “My reason for being here is just as simple as Mr. Ludlow’s and just as environmental as Mr. Smith-Gower’s: Mr. Rogers, I think your land should be converted into a park. But not just any park: a flower park!” The woman’s voice quivered with conviction. “The public could come and stroll along the crushed granite footpaths and observe the flower competitions.” She spread her arms: bracelets jingled and rings sparkled. “Can’t you just see it? Banks and banks of tulips and geraniums, and that’s not all: duck ponds and gazebos and a little mill with a waterwheel and footbridges and—”

      “Idle rich!” Smith-Gower’s voice declared.

      Morley Rogers beat the trowel against his walker. “Mrs. Caldwell,” he said in his thin voice, the camera once again on him, his small head wobbling back and forth, “some of these people may not know that you are the perennial runner-up in Caledon Township’s Beautiful Garden Competition, and the fact is you’re just plumb jealous of the perennial winner, which happens to be me, God bless! Ladies and gentlemen, Mrs. Caldwell figures if she can dispossess me of my land and plunk me down to rot in some old folks home, then she might win! You know what I say to that? I say horse apples! Next!”

      Summer Caldwell huffed her way out of view and was replaced moments later by a tall, thin East Indian man, who stood quietly until the clip-clopping stopped. Dressed in a light gray suit and royal blue tie, the man cast his piercing black eyes across his listeners and said in a richly accented voice, “Thank you, Mr. Rogers. My name is Mahmoud Khan, and like everyone else here, I have my own agenda. I have my own reasons for wanting your land. As you may know, I am the owner of Dot Com Acres, the farm next door, formerly known as Cedar Creek Stud Farm. That’s right, I am the businessman of the Internet. The Internet, Mr. Rogers,” and he inclined his head to his host, “in case you are truly unaware and were not just making a joke with us, is a form of global communication and information access. People use it on their computers. My success as a businessman did not come without struggle; nevertheless, it is, as you like to say in this fine country, a dream come true. However, my friend, I have another dream as well. I am embarking on an ambitious program that involves the breeding

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