Cranberry Red: A Novel

21. Gunnar Godson

The third and last day of Ben’s orientation involved learning about the activities of Osborne’s research station, located on the Tamarack River on the western edge of Ames County. He stopped at his office to pick up his notepad and saw that Brittani was already hard at work. “So, what’d you think of the parade?” Brittani asked, looking up from her computer screen. “Okay, I guess.” “Just okay? Look at all the people we met. I passed out a hundred flyers and gave away that many Osborne pins. Lots of interest in our office, Ben.” “Seems that way,” Ben replied. “Admit it, you had a good time riding in that new convertible down Main Street,” Brittani said, teasing. She was trying to get acquainted with her coworker and was having some difficulty understanding his rather bland approach to things. “I did talk to a lot of people. Enjoyed doing that. That’s always the fun part of this work. The people you meet. The problems you try to help them solve. I’ll be at the research station all day. Keep the home fires burning,” Ben said as he left the office. “Bye,” Brittani said. “Have fun.” In a half hour, Ben arrived at the entrance to Osborne’s research station. There were no signs indicating such, just a big red one that said “No trespassing. Violators will be prosecuted.” A second, somewhat smaller sign read “Guard dog on premises.” The gate stood open. 86 Gunnar Godson 21 87 Gunnar Godson Ben drove along an overgrown gravel driveway for nearly a quarter mile before he arrived at a small cluster of nondescript buildings in a little clearing . He recognized the buildings from the orientation video. Ben stopped his car next to a late-model Ford pickup, got out, and looked around for the dog. He spotted a small laboratory sign above a door in a brown steel pole building. Cautiously, he pushed open the door, still looking and listening for a bark or a growl. He’d had too much experience with mean dogs over the past twenty years. He had had a couple of torn trouser legs and even a bite on his leg that had required rabies shots. So he was wary. “Anybody here?” he said in a not-too-loud voice. “Is that you, Wesley?” he heard from the back of the building, where there was an enclosure with an open door. The voice had an accent. “Yes,” Ben responded. He was still wondering about the guard dog. Was it a Doberman, or maybe a Rottweiler? Ben walked past some farm equipment, a John Deere tractor, a twobottom plow, a rotary mower. A short, bald man stood in the doorway of the interior room. The light behind him reflected off his head. He wore a white lab coat. “Dr. Godson?” Ben said. “God morgan,” Gunnar Godson responded. He spoke with a Swedish accent. Godson extended his hand and shook Ben’s. “I was wondering about the guard dog,” Ben said. Godson laughed. “No guard dog. But the sign works. At night we turn on our security system, and if something trips the sensor, a recording of a big, mean dog scares the bejeebers out of anyone nosing around the place.” He had a lyrical way of speaking. “Oh.” It was all Ben could think to say. “Come on into my lab,” Godson said. Inside this rather plain building, Ben saw a modern laboratory looking to be fully equipped with microscopes, computers, and a host of devices that were completely foreign to him. “Here’s where we discover things. Out there,” Godson said as he pointed out the window to the experimental plots, “is where we find out if they work.” Two lab technicians bent over microscopes. Godson introduced them to Ben, telling them briefly about Ben’s new job. Ben and Godson walked into Godson’s small office at one end of the building. It had a window that looked out on the Tamarack River. “Why all the mystery out here?” Ben asked Godson. He was accustomed to the University of Wisconsin Experimental Farms, where the research activities were mostly open to the public, with large signs and annual field days to show off the research results. “Proprietary,” Godson said. “We don’t want the world to know what we’re doing until we’re...