A middle-aged, heavy-set, Western dressed man came to his feet and
cleared his throat. "Dr. Warren Harding Smythe, American Medical Relief.
I assume that most of you have heard of us. An organization supported
partially by government grant, partially by contributions by private
citizens and institutions, as is that of Miss Isobel Cunningham's Africa
for Africans Association." He added grimly, "But there the resemblance
ends."
He looked at Homer Crawford. "I am to be added to the number not in
favor of this conference. In fact, I am opposed to the presence of most
of you here in Africa."
Crawford nodded. "You certainly have a right to your opinion, doctor.
Will you elucidate?"
Dr. Smythe had worked his way to the front of the room, now he looked
out over the assemblage defiantly. "I am not at all sure that the task
most of you work at is a desirable one. As you know, my own organization
is at work bringing medical care to Africa. We build hospitals, clinics,
above all medical schools. Not a single one of our hospitals but is a
school at the same time."
Abe Baker growled, "Everybody knows and values your work, Doc, but
what's this bit about being opposed to ours?"
Smythe looked at him distastefully. "You people are seeking to destroy
the culture of these people, and, overnight thrust them into the
pressures of Twentieth Century existence. As a medical doctor, I do not
think them capable of assimilating such rapid change and I fear for
their mental health."
There was a prolonged silence.
Crawford said finally, "What is the alternative to the problems I
presented in my summation of the situation that confronts the world due
to the backward conditions of such areas as Africa?"
"I don't know, it isn't my field."
There was another silence.
Elmer Allen said finally, uncomfortably, "It _is_ our field, Dr.
Smythe."
Smythe turned to him, his face still holding its distaste. "I understand
that the greater part of you are sociologists, political scientists and
such. Frankly, ladies and gentlemen, I do not think of the social
sciences as exact ones."
He looked around the room and added, deliberately, "In view of the
condition of the world, I do not have a great deal of respect for the
product of your efforts."
There was an uncomfortable stirring throughout the audience.
Clifford Jackson said unhappily, "We do what we must do, doctor. We do
what we can."
Smythe eyed him. He said, "Some years ago I was impressed by a paragraph
by a British writer named Huxley. So impressed that I copied it and have
carried it with me. I'll read it now."
The heavy-set doctor took out his wallet, fumbled in it for a moment and
finally brought forth an aged, many times folded, piece of yellowed
paper.
He cleared his throat, then read:
"_To the question_ quis custodiet custodes?--_who will mount guard over
our guardians, who will engineer the engineers?--the answer is a bland
denial that they need any supervision. There seems to be a touching
belief among certain Ph.Ds in sociology that Ph.Ds in sociology will
never be corrupted by power. Like Sir Galahad's, their strength is the
strength of ten because their heart is pure--and their heart is pure
because they are scientists and have taken six thousand hours of social
studies. Alas, high education is not necessarily a guarantee of higher
virtue, or higher political wisdom._"
The doctor finished and returned to his seat, his face still
uncompromising.
* * * * *
Homer Crawford chuckled ruefully. "The point is well taken, I suppose.
However, so was the one expressed by Mr. Jackson. We do what we must,
and what we can." His eyes went over the assembly. "Is there any other
group from which we haven't heard?"