Devil’s Harvest by Andrew Brown

Symington, who was now sitting forward and rubbing his eyes; perhaps he had been listening after all. Gabriel had mentioned Zhejiang to give the undertaking an international flavour, but once articulated it sounded forced and perhaps a little dishonest, given that the two university teams were now involved in a desperate race to confirm the distinction of the plant as a new subspecies and to claim the taxonomical right to name it. And exploit all that it had to offer.
    ‘The critical question is this: is this a mutation of
thaliana
along the lines of Zhejiang’s laboratory-invoked stress mutation, which has formed the basis of much of their work? If so, this sample represents an example of a stress-induced mutation naturally established in order to cope with Fe hyperaccumulation. An interesting mutation but ultimately limited in its significance. Or …’ He paused for dramatic effect, but apart from the overeager admirer in the front row, he was met by largely blank expressions. ‘… Or, as we have proposed here at Bristol – and we believe we’re about to prove – is this a new subspecies, unique and evolutionarily adapted to meet a long-term challenge in a transition zone? Is this a subspecies that has adapted to climate change from above and soil degradation from below, by simultaneously countering iron surpluses while increasing its reflectivity to protect its internal structures and moisture retention from heat exchange? If so, this will provide us with important insights into both the evolutionary model and the prospects of realistic bioengineering to cope with a changing planet.’
    This was the climax of his talk, the moment when the audience ought to have burst into rapturous applause. Gabriel knew better than to expect it, and none was forthcoming. There was some shuffling of papers, a cough or two. He was pleased to see that the rosy-faced undergrad was looking at him with an expression of marvel on her face, almost teary in the harsh light. He looked away for fear of raising the devil in him once more, pointing instead to one of the hands raised by a PhD student. The questions were the usual humdrum of references to personal studies, opinions devoid of intellectual rigour. Gabriel answered with increasingly complex explanations, dissuading any continuation. An acne-spotted student towards the back stood up when his limp hand was finally acknowledged. His unkempt hair gave him a slightly demented appearance. Gabriel recognised him – a tutorial class on eukarycytes, he fancied – but he couldn’t dredge up a name.
    ‘The United Kingdom is a signatory to the 1992 Convention on Biological Diversity,’ the boy said. ‘It confirms national sovereignty over the biological resources within any state’s boundaries. How do you marry that principle with the acquisition of a new species from a sovereign territory in the name of this university?’
    Martin, that was his name. Martin Harrier. Gabriel was pleased with himself, now remembering the eco-warrior arguments that had knocked around in the tutorial. ‘Capitalism is theft’, ‘Science the watchdogs for multinationals’. The student was a self-proclaimed disciple of Foucault. Gabriel eschewed the idea that you could subscribe to another man’s theory
in toto
: why elevate another person’s thoughts above one’s own? Hadn’t they farted and snored and masturbated like everyone else? Taking on the world view of someone else seemed not just criminally superficial, but somehow lazy as well, a cage rather than a platform. Harrier had annoyed Gabriel in the tutorial all the more because he was clearly bright, but avowedly welded to his emotive self.
    ‘Science is never about acquisition, Martin. God forbid, or we might all end up as politicians.’ A pleasing titter from the front row. What did the boy think, that the starving peasants of war-torn Sudan could give a toss about a new subspecies of shrub? ‘Science, and in this case taxonomy, is about