“So it was the Chinese who financed your research?” Margaret was curious.

“Hell, no. They just facilitated it. It was my employers, Grogan Industries, put up the money. Good old-fashioned capitalist high-risk investment. They did the deal with China. Strange bedfellows, huh? But, boy, did they both hit the jackpot.”

“How?”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? The Chinese got a quarter of the world’s population. And for the first time in their history they can feed themselves. Hell, they’re growing so much rice now they’re exporting the stuff.”

“And Grogan Industries?”

“They got the patent on all my work. They’re going to be launching my rice all over Asia and India next year.”

Margaret had heard of Grogan, a multinational US-based biotech company with an unsavoury reputation for ruthlessly exploiting the pharmaceutical market in the third world.

“And no doubt the poorest countries—those with the greatest need—will be the last to get it. Because I’ll bet your technology doesn’t come cheap, does it, Dr. McCord?”

“Hey!” He threw his hands up in self-defence. “Don’t blame me. The sole purpose of the scientist is to work for the benefit of mankind.” He grinned. “Or something. But it’s money that makes the world go round.”

“Yeah, and it’s money and vested interests that persuade politicians and governments not to put sensible constraints on the work of people like you.” Margaret’s passion was born of years of argument and discussion, and it was resurfacing now in a blur of painful memories.

McCord seemed taken aback by her vehemence. Others around the table sat in fascinated silence, initial offence overcome by curiosity at the spectacle of these two yangguizi battling it out. As a puzzled Veronica returned to the table, Bob slipped inconspicuously away.

“Sensible constraints? What’s sensible about them?”

“What’s sensible about them is that they stop arrogant scientists with God complexes releasing genetically altered materials into the environment without the least idea of what the long-term effects are likely to be.”

“I’d have thought the effects were obvious. Long-term or otherwise. A lot of hungry people are getting fed.”

“But at what cost? How did you develop this ‘super-rice,’ Dr. McCord? Built-in insecticide, antifungal, antiviral genes?”

He was genuinely taken aback by the extent of her knowledge. Then he remembered. “Of course, you’re a doctor, aren’t you? Well, I’m glad you’re interested.” He relaxed again. “Naturally, I realise genetics isn’t your speciality, so let me explain it to you—in terms that you’ll understand.” He made a fist and extended his little finger. “Think of my little finger as being like a virus,” he said. Then he smiled salaciously. “Or perhaps you’d be more comfortable thinking of the virus as being like something more familiar to you—like a penis.” Veronica blushed deeply, and Mr. Cao and Dr. Wu’s husband turned their eyes down to the table.