Devil’s Harvest by Andrew Brown Page A

sir?’
    ‘When it comes to politics, I’m agnostic, Professor.’ Gabriel felt momentarily pleased with his wit, though Ismail seemed a little puzzled by the statement.
    ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
    Gabriel pressed ahead: ‘Wars will come and go, humans will suffer. Science remains the only constant endeavour. It ignores race, religion, gender; it’s only science and its pursuit of the truth that matters.’
    ‘Spoken like a true believer,’ Ismail said.
    ‘Actually,’ Jane interjected with ominous acrimony, ‘science is where the weak and afraid run to hide from reality. It is the lair of the emotionally infirm.’
    Hardly the warm support one hoped for from one’s spouse, Gabriel observed. Even the mischievous Sudanese was silent, neither agreeing nor taking issue, perhaps for fear of being drawn into a marital spat. ‘Do you know why the battles between academics are so fierce, Professor?’ Jane continued, turning to him with a smile as if pared by a blade. ‘Because there’s so little at stake.’
    To Gabriel’s surprise, it was his nemesis who came to his rescue. ‘I must disagree – most respectfully, for one does not wish to cross daggers with so beautiful and formidable an opponent – but I don’t agree that so little is at stake. And some debates, no doubt, are nothing but an echo in an empty drum. But in others, much of the health of the developing world may be at risk.’
    Gabriel nodded cautiously, not wishing to antagonise his wife.
    ‘Take your current research, Professor.’ The supercilious smile returned and Gabriel felt his defences rise. ‘I found your lecture most interesting. Of course, this plant has been used by my local countrymen for centuries and just because they haven’t given it a fancy name doesn’t mean that one can now talk of its “discovery”. But now you appear locked into a race to the death with the Chinese. Speaking metaphorically, of course.’
    ‘I didn’t say anything about a race,’ Gabriel retorted, perhaps a little too quickly.
    ‘It’s all politics, ultimately all just politics. This is the new colonialism, the recolonising of Africa for her resources. Only, this time, you don’t even have to step onto our shores – you can accumulate your wealth at a distance, safe from the flies and the children with snotty noses.’
    Are we only to study that which will alleviate the starving hordes in Africa, Gabriel thought to himself. Is that where he was headed? Liberal tree-hugging where the starving Third World is approached on bended knee?
    ‘You take,’ Ismail concluded, ‘without even bothering to arrive.’
    Before Gabriel could respond, the young postgraduate student on Coxley’s left joined the conversation. ‘It’s hardly taking without giving,’ she protested. Gabriel had seen her in the corridors, a gauche and unexceptional-looking Australian woman, who had taken on some tutoring for the department. He had never bothered to find out her name. ‘By my understanding,’ she proceeded, ‘South Sudan is almost entirely reliant on aid from the Western world.’
    ‘Ah yes, the spectre of Western aid. If ever there was a self-serving industry, that would be it.’ Ismail stroked his goatee as he launched into a cutting analysis of the NGO industry in Africa, pointing out how the UN, with its own airline, had become an industry in itself and how the Chinese – the continent’s ‘new master’ – were reaping the rewards from upgrading Mozambique’s roads. ‘Now that the Chinese have ripped up the country’s railway line and shipped it off to Beijing for scrap metal, need I tell you that the biggest investment being made by the Mozambique government at the moment is in upgrading its roads? And who benefits from all these contracts? The Chinese, of course.’
    The speech was delivered in an even tone, without any venom, and yet the academic concave at the table sat stranded in berated mortification. Ismail had returned to his plate of