Let’s say, just for kicks, the henchmen never showed up that day. They got stuck in a swamp rut, had a family thing, change of heart. Whatever. Let’s say Linda and I got up that morning, put the coffee on the stove, and finished the last tweak on our formula. Let’s say Matt Cable and his government bosses were so happy with us they flew us straight out to the wastelands west of Amarillo that very afternoon with the belly of the plane full of our growth compound, spraying it all out over the last 5 miles before the airstrip. Let’s say by the time we deplaned the whole place looked like the Amazon all the way to the horizon. Let’s say our faces hurt from big-smiling at all that jungle. And the government men were so ecstatic they dropped Linda and me off at the base motel with plenty cash and an open tab at the cafe across the highway. Let’s say it all went down exactly that way, everyone pleased as pie. Lush, green growth all around us. Just how many quarters do you think Linda and I could’ve fed into the Magic Fingers box before all that vegetation started dying in the heat with no groundwater to drink? And once all that green started turning brown, who in the hell was going to pick up our tab?