“I know who you are.”
Thorne glanced toward the field.
By September, the tallest vines had begun to decline from summer peak, but thousands of pounds of late-season fruit still hung from the rows.
Workers moved between the plants collecting tomatoes into cedar crates.
“I believe,” Thorne said carefully, “we have something important to discuss.”
Cole gestured toward an old wooden picnic table beside the workshop.
“Then sit.”
Thorne hesitated at the condition of the bench, then sat anyway.
He opened the leather binder.
“The European consortium that contracted the heirloom processing trial at our facility contacted us three weeks ago.”
Cole remained silent.
“They suffered a catastrophic storage fire at one of their seed laboratories in France.”
“How bad?”
“Complete loss in one wing.”
Thorne turned several pages.
“Their baseline genetic mother stock for seven of the heirloom varieties processed through our Indiana facility was destroyed.”
Cole’s expression changed slightly.
Thorne noticed.
“The consortium initiated a supply-chain investigation to identify any surviving genetic material.”
“They traced the processing run to our plant.”
“And then?”
“And then they discovered that the waste from that specific production cycle was delivered here.”
Thorne looked across the field again.
“Our investigators collected samples from produce distributors and seed buyers who purchased material from you.”
He turned another page.
“The results were confirmed last week.”
Cole leaned back.
Thorne continued.
“The only surviving, viable, field-tested seed stock of those seven historic varieties currently identified in the Western Hemisphere is growing on your property.”
For several seconds, neither man spoke.
Five months earlier, the Midwest Canning Corporation had considered the tomato slurry a disposal problem.
Now the genetic material hidden inside that waste had become commercially irreplaceable.
Thorne cleared his throat.
“Mr. Evans, the board has authorized an immediate purchase agreement.”
He slid the binder across the table.
“We are offering you a five-year exclusive master contract to manage our proprietary heirloom seed preservation program.”
Cole did not touch the binder yet.
Thorne continued.
“The company will fund construction of a modern two-acre climate-controlled seed facility on your property.”
“We will provide mechanical harvesting logistics where appropriate, laboratory equipment, storage infrastructure, and transportation support.”
Cole remained silent.
“And,” Thorne added, “the agreement includes a guaranteed annual retainer of $350,000.”
Cole looked at him.
“Per year?”
“Guaranteed.”
“Five years?”
“Yes.”
“Whether the crop performs or not?”
“Subject to the technical terms in the agreement, yes.”
Cole finally pulled the binder toward him.
He read the first page.
Then the second.
He did not rush.
Thorne watched him with increasing impatience.
Finally, Cole closed the binder.
“I’ll accept the contract, Mr. Thorne.”
Thorne exhaled.
“Excellent.”
“On one condition.”
The executive stopped.
“What condition?”
Cole pointed across the ridge toward the additional acreage he had already begun preparing.
“Next spring, when your factory cleans out its seasonal processing tanks…”
Thorne waited.
“You deliver every single ton of the waste directly to my farm gate.”
Thorne stared at him.