"What's it for?"
She opened the front ventilator in the cowl. The gush of wind which poured in lifted her skirt to the edge of the book. "See?" she said. "Keeps my skirt from blowing over my head when I open the vent."
Hall glanced at her bare legs. "Some day you'll catch cold," he smiled. "What have you got planted on your land? Looks to me like soy."
"It is soy. Three thousand acres."
"That makes you a farmer."
"The hell it does. That makes me an Ambassador's daughter. The Rockefeller committee planted it, with local help, of course. It's part of a demonstration project. The idea is to teach them how to grow new crops so that after the war Detroit can keep the home price on soy down by importing just enough soy to keep it growing in South America. All I did was donate my land."
"What happens to the proceeds when you sell the crop?"
"Oh, I suppose the old man will make a big show of donating the proceeds to the Red Cross in San Hermano."
"That the house?"
"That's my hideaway. The old man can't come out here. He's violently allergic to soy beans."