Free The Camel of Destruction by Michael Pearce Page B

seeds.’
    ‘Excellent!’
    ‘Excuse me,’ said a new, diffident voice. ‘Has the seed been properly field-tested?’
    ‘Ah, Mr. Aziz,’ said the Chairman, with a certain lack of warmth. ‘From the Department of Agriculture.’
    ‘Of course it’s been properly tested!’ said the lecturer indignantly.
    ‘I ask only because I saw the results of the last trials and they showed that the seed had a tendency to deteriorate on re-sowing.’
    ‘Those were the first trials. We have, of course, improved the strain since.’
    And there is no deterioration? It’s important, you see,’ said Mr. Aziz, shy but sticking to his guns, ’because the fellahin always keep back some seed to sow the following year.’
    ‘They can always come back to us for new ones. In fact, that might be an advantage.’
    ‘One moment, Mr. Chairman!’ called the persistent Mr. Sidki from the back. ‘Is Mr. Aziz saying that the fellahin could be tricked into buying seed which it is known has a tendency to deteriorate?’
    There were shouts of protest.
    ‘Mr. Aziz is saying nothing of the sort,’ said the Chairman coldly. ‘He was merely asking a question.’
    ‘It’s not the question that I’m bothered about; it’s the answer.’
    ‘Mr. Sidki, really! The Society, I can assure you, is as committed to the interests of the fellahin as you are yourself!’
    ‘It just sounded as if they were the ones who were being asked to bear the costs if things went wrong.’
    ‘They’re the ones who stand to gain most!’ someone called out.
    ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Mr. Sidki. ‘I think the ones who stand to gain most are the ones who sell them the seed and lend them the money with which to buy it!’
    It was some time, amid the uproar, before the Chairman could be heard banging his gavel.
    ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that this would be a good point at which to close the meeting.’
     
    Afterwards, they all moved out on to the lawn for a cup of tea. The meeting was taking place, by kind permission of the Consul-General, in the grounds of what Old India hands— and there were lots of Old India hands—persisted in calling the Residency.
    Small groups gathered among the rose-beds. Their behaviour was different, however, from that of the groups which annually gathered on the Consul-General’s lawn; they actually looked at the roses.
    By no means all the audience was English. There was a considerable sprinkling of sober-suited, be-tarbooshed Egyptian effendi. Owen wondered who they were. Employees of the society? Managers who worked for the big pashas who still owned over two-thirds of Egypt’s cultivable land?
    He recognized Aziz, the one who came from the Department of Agriculture. He was standing on his own and appeared to be rather out of it.
    Owen went across to him.
    ‘I was interested in the point you made,’ he said. ‘Do you think there’s a real risk of the seed deteriorating?’
    ‘Hard to say. The Society usually knows what it’s doing. But that’s what usually happens when you try to produce a new strain of seed. You think you’ve made a permanent alteration but after a generation or two it regresses.’
    ‘You’re a scientist yourself?’
    ‘An entomologist.’
    ‘Just the man for the Department of Agriculture.’
    ‘Well…’ Mr. Aziz looked doubtful. ‘I tried to get a job with the Society but of course there’s a lot of competition.’
    ‘Less so for the Ministry?’
    ‘The Society is very well established.’
    ‘Too well established,’ a brisk voice joined in. It was the pushful Mr. Sidki. He was a short, burly man, dressed in an extremely expensive dark suit and full of energy. He shook hands warmly.
    ‘The Mamur Zapt,’ he said. ‘So at last you’ve got round to it. Well, better late than never. Nice to see you here.’
    He turned to Mr. Aziz and took him confidingly by the arm. ‘A good point you made just now! Excellent! I can see you’re a man to watch.’ He took a card out of his pocket