The Lost World Read online

  Thorne said, “You’re saying the animal was injured by another dinosaur.”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  They drove a moment in silence. “Who else besides us knows about this island?”

  “I don’t know,” Malcolm said. “But somebody’s trying to find out. My office was broken into today, and photographed.”

  “Great.” Thorne sighed. “But you didn’t know where the island was, did you?”

  “No. I hadn’t put it together yet.”

  “Do you think anybody else has?”

  “No,” Malcolm said. “We’re on our own.”

  Exploitation

  Lewis Dodgson threw open the door marked ANIMAL QUARTERS, and immediately all the dogs began barking. Dodgson walked down the corridor between the rows of cages, stacked ten feet high on both sides. The building was large; the Biosyn Corporation of Cupertino, California, required an extensive animal-testing facility.

  Walking alongside him, Rossiter, the head of the company, gloomily brushed the lapels of his Italian suit. “I hate this fucking place,” he said. “Why did you want me to come here?”

  “Because,” Dodgson said. “We need to talk about the future.”

  “Stinks in here,” Rossiter said. He glanced at his watch. “Get on with it, Lew.”

  “We can talk in here.” Dodgson led him to a glass-walled superintendent’s booth, in the center of the building. The glass cut down the sound of the barking. But through the windows, they could look out at the rows of animals.

  “It’s simple,” Dodgson said, starting to pace. “But I think it’s important.”

  Lewis Dodgson was forty-five years old, bland-faced and balding. His features were youthful, and his manner was mild. But appearances were deceiving—the baby-faced Dodgson was one of the most ruthless and aggressive geneticists of his generation. Controversy had dogged his career: as a graduate student at Hopkins, he had been dismissed for planning human gene therapy without FDA permission. Later, after joining Biosyn, he had conducted a controversial rabies-vaccine test in Chile—the illiterate farmers who were the subjects were never informed they were being tested.

  In each case, Dodgson explained that he was a scientist in a hurry, and could not be held back by regulations drawn up for lesser souls. He called himself “results-oriented,” which really meant he did whatever he considered necessary to achieve his goal. He was also a tireless self-promoter. Within the company, Dodgson presented himself as a researcher, even though he lacked the ability to do original research, and had never done any. His intellect was fundamentally derivative; he never conceived of anything until someone else had thought of it first. He was very good at “developing” research, which meant stealing someone else’s work at an early stage. In this, he was without scruple and without peer. For many years he had run the reverse-engineering section at Biosyn, which in theory examined competitors’ products and determined how they were made. But in practice, “reverse engineering” involved a great deal of industrial espionage.

  Rossiter, of course, had no illusions about Dodgson. He disliked him, and avoided him as much as possible. Dodgson was always taking chances, cutting corners; he made Rossiter uneasy. But Rossiter also knew that modern biotechnology was highly competitive. To stay competitive, every company needed a man like Dodgson. And Dodgson was very good at what he did.

  “I’ll come right to the point,” Dodgson said, turning to Rossiter. “If we act quickly, I believe we have an opportunity to acquire the InGen technology.”

  Rossiter sighed. “Not again. . . .”

  “I know, Jeff. I know how you feel. I admit, there is some history here.”

  “History? The only history is you failed—time and again. We’ve tried this, back door and front door. Hell, we even tried to buy the company when it was in Chapter 11, because you told us it would be available. But it turned out it wasn’t. The Japanese wouldn’t sell.”

  “I understand, Jeff. But let’s not forget—”

  “What I can’t forget,” Rossiter said, “is that we paid seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars to your friend Nedry, and have nothing to show for it.”

  “But Jeff—”

  “Then we paid five hundred thousand to that Dai-Ichi marriage broker. Nothing to show for that, either. Our attempts to acquire InGen technology have been a complete fucking failure. That’s what I can’t forget.”

  “But the point,” Dodgson said, “is that we kept trying for a good reason. This technology is vital to the future of the company.”

  “So you say.”

  “The world is changing, Jeff. I’m talking about solving one of the major problems this company faces in the twenty-first century.”

  “Which is?”

  Dodgson pointed out the window, at the barking dogs. “Animal testing. Let’s face it, Jeff: every year, we get more pressure not to use animals for testing and research. Every year, more demonstrations, more break-ins, more bad press. First it was just simple-minded zealots and Hollywood celebrities. But now it’s a bandwagon: even university philosophers are beginning to argue that it’s unethical for monkeys, and dogs, and even rats to be subjected to the indignities of laboratory research. We’ve even had some protests about our ‘exploitation’ of squid, even though they’re on dinner tables all over the world. I’m telling you, Jeff, there’s no end to this trend. Eventually, somebody’s going to say we can’t even exploit bacteria to make genetic products.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Just wait. It’ll happen. And it’ll shut us down. Unless we have a genuinely created animal. Consider—an animal that is extinct, and is brought back to life, is for all practical purposes not an animal at all. It can’t have any rights. It’s already extinct. So if it exists, it can only be something we have made. We made it, we patent it, we own it. And it is a perfect research testbed. And we believe that the enzyme and hormone systems of dinosaurs are identical to mammalian systems. In the future, drugs can be tested on small dinosaurs as successfully as they are now tested on dogs and rats—with much less risk of legal challenge.”

  Rossiter was shaking his head. “You think.”

  “I know. They’re basically big lizards, Jeff. And nobody loves a lizard. They’re not like these cute doggies that lick your hand and break your heart. Lizards have no personality. They’re snakes with legs.”

  Rossiter sighed.

  “Jeff. We’re talking about real freedom, here. Because, at the moment, everything to do with living animals is tied up in legal and moral knots. Big-game hunters can’t shoot a lion or an elephant—the same animals their fathers and grandfathers used to shoot, and then pose proudly for a photo. Now there are forms, licenses, expenses—and plenty of guilt. These days, you don’t dare shoot a tiger and admit it afterward. In the modern world, it’s a much more serious transgression to shoot a tiger than to shoot your parents. Tigers have advocates. But now imagine: a specially stocked hunting preserve, maybe somewhere in Asia, where individuals of wealth and importance could hunt tyrannosaurs and triceratops in a natural setting. It would be an incredibly desirable attraction. How many hunters have a stuffed elk head on their wall? The world’s full of them. But how many can claim to have a snarling tyrannosaurus head, hanging above the wet bar?”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I’m trying to make a point here, Jeff: these animals are totally exploitable. We can do anything we want with them.”

  Rossiter stood up from the table, put his hands in his pockets. He sighed, then looked up at Dodgson.

  “The animals still exist?”

  Dodgson nodded slowly.

  “And you know where they are?”

  Dodgson nodded.

  “Okay,” Rossiter said. “Do it.”

  He turned toward the door, then paused, looked back. “But, Lew,” he said. “Let’s be clear. This is it. This is absolutely the last time. Either you get the animals now, or it’s over. This is the last time. Got it?”

  “Don’
t worry,” Dodgson said. “This time, I’ll get them.”

  THIRD CONFIGURATION

  “In the intermediate phase, swiftly developing complexity within the system hides the risk of imminent chaos. But the risk is there.”

  IAN MALCOLM

  Costa Rica

  There was a drenching downpour in Puerto Cortés. Rain drummed on the roof of the little metal shed beside the airfield. Dripping wet, Thorne stood and waited while the Costa Rican official went over the papers, again and again. Rodríguez was his name, and he was just a kid in his twenties, wearing an ill-fitting uniform, terrified of making a mistake.

  Thorne looked out at the runway, where, in the soft dawn light, the cargo containers were being clamped to the bellies of two big Huey helicopters. Eddie Carr was out there in the rain with Malcolm, shouting as the workmen secured the clamps.

  Rodríguez shuffled the papers. “Now, Señor Thorne, according to this, your destination is Isla Sorna. . . .”

  “That’s right.”

  “And your containers have only vehicles?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Research vehicles.”

  “Sorna is a primitive place. There is no petrol, no supplies, not even any roads to speak of. . . .”

  “Have you been there?”

  “Myself, no. People here have no interest in this island. It is a wild spot, rock and jungle. And there is no place for a boat to land, except in very special weather conditions. For example, today one cannot go there.”

  “I understand,” Thorne said.

  “I just wish that you will be prepared,” Rodríguez said, “for the difficulties you will find there.”

  “I think we’re prepared.”

  “You are taking adequate petrol for your vehicles?”

  Thorne sighed. Why bother to explain? “Yes, we are.”

  “And there are just three of you, Dr. Malcolm, yourself, and your assistant, Señor Carr?”

  “Correct.”

  “And your intended stay is less than one week?”

  “That’s correct. More like two days: with any luck, we expect to be off the island sometime tomorrow.”

  Rodríguez shuffled the papers again, as if looking for a hidden clue. “Well . . .”

  “Is there a problem?” Thorne said, glancing at his watch.

  “No problem, señor. Your permits are signed by the Director General of the Biological Preserves. They are in order. . . .” Rodríguez hesitated. “But it is very unusual, that such a permit would be granted at all.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I do not know the details, but there was some trouble on one of the islands a few years ago, and since then the Department of Biological Preserves has closed all the Pacific islands to tourists.”

  “We’re not tourists,” Thorne said.

  “I understand that, Señor Thorne.”

  More shuffling of papers.

  Thorne waited.

  Out on the runway, the container clamps locked in place, and the containers lifted off the ground.

  “Very well, Señor Thorne,” Rodríguez said finally, stamping the papers. “I wish you good luck.”

  “Thank you,” Thorne said. He tucked the papers in his pocket, ducked his head against the rain, and ran back out on the runway.

  Three miles offshore, the helicopters broke through the coastal cloud layer, into early-morning sunlight. From the cockpit of the lead Huey, Thorne could look up and down the coast. He saw five islands at various distances offshore—harsh rocky pinnacles, rising out of rough blue sea. The islands were each several miles apart, undoubtedly part of an old volcanic chain.

  He pressed the speaker button. “Which is Sorna?”

  The pilot pointed ahead. “We call them the Five Deaths,” he said. “Isla Muerte, Isla Matanceros, Isla Pena, Isla Tacaño, and Isla Sorna, which is the big one farthest north.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “Never, señor. But I believe there will be a landing site.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Some years ago, there were some flights there. I have heard the Americans would come, and fly there, sometimes.”

  “Not Germans?”

  “No, no. There have been no Germans since . . . I do not know. The World War. They were Americans that came.”

  “When was that?”

  “I am not sure. Perhaps ten years ago.”

  The helicopter turned north, passing over the nearest island. Thorne glimpsed rugged, volcanic terrain, overgrown with dense jungle. There was no sign of life, or of human habitation.

  “To the local people, these islands are not happy places,” the pilot said. “They say, no good comes from here.” He smiled. “But they do not know. They are superstitious Indians.”

  Now they were over open water, with Isla Sorna directly ahead. It was clearly an old volcanic crater: bare, reddish-gray rock walls, an eroded cone.

  “Where do the boats land?”

  The pilot pointed to where the sea surged and crashed against the cliffs. “On the east side of this island, there are many caves, made by the waves. Some of the local people call this Isla Gemido. It means ‘groan,’ from the sound of the waves inside the caves. Some of the caves go all the way through to the interior, and a boat can pass through at certain times. But not in weather as you see it now.”

  Thorne thought of Sarah Harding. If she was coming, she would land later today. “I have a colleague who may be arriving this afternoon,” he said. “Can you bring her out?”

  “I am sorry,” the pilot said. “We have a job in Golfo Juan. We will not be back until tonight.”

  “What can she do?”

  The pilot squinted at the sea. “Perhaps she can come by boat. The sea changes by the hour. She might have luck.”

  “And you will come back for us tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Señor Thorne. We will come in the early morning. It is the best time, for the winds.”

  The helicopter approached from the west, rising several hundred feet, moving over the rocky cliffs to reveal the interior of Isla Gemido. It appeared just like the others: volcanic ridges and ravines, heavily overgrown with dense jungle. It was beautiful from the air, but Thorne knew it would be dauntingly difficult to move through that terrain. He stared down, looking for roads.

  The helicopter thumped lower, circling the central area of the island. Thorne saw no buildings, no roads. The helicopter descended toward the jungle. The pilot said, “Because of the cliffs, the winds here are very bad. Many gusts and updrafts. There is only one place on the island where it is safe to land.” He peered out the window. “Ah. Yes. There.”

  Thorne saw an open clearing, overgrown with tall grass.

  “We land there,” the pilot said.

  Isla Sorna

  Eddie Carr stood in the tall grass of the clearing, turned away from the flying dust as the two helicopters lifted off the ground and rose into the sky. In a few moments they were small specks, their sound fading. Eddie shaded his eyes as he looked upward. In a forlorn voice he said, “When’re they coming back?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Thorne said. “We’ll have found Levine by then.”

  “At least, we’d better,” Malcolm said.

  And then the helicopters were gone, disappearing over the high rim of the crater. Carr stood with Thorne and Malcolm in the clearing, enveloped in morning heat, and deep silence on the island.

  “Kind of creepy here,” Eddie said, pulling his baseball cap down lower over his eyes.

  Eddie Carr was twenty-four years old, raised in Daly City. Physically, he was dark-haired, compact and strong. His body was thick, the muscles bunched, but his hands were elegant, the fingers long and tapered. Eddie had a talent—Thorne would have said, a genius—for mechanical things. Eddie could build anything, and fix anything. He could see how things worked, just by looking at them. Thorne had hired him three years earlier, his first job out of community college. It was supposed to be a temporary job, earning money so he could go b
ack to school and get an advanced degree. But Thorne had long since become dependent on Eddie. And Eddie, for his part, wasn’t much interested in going back to the books.

  At the same time, he hadn’t counted on anything like this, he thought, looking around him at the clearing. Eddie was an urban kid, accustomed to the action of the city, the honk of horns and the rush of traffic. This desolate silence made him uneasy.

  “Come on,” Thorne said, putting a hand on his shoulder, “let’s get started.” They turned to the cargo containers, left by the helicopter. They were sitting a few yards away, in the tall grass.

  “Can I help?” Malcolm said, a few yards away.

  “If you don’t mind, no,” Eddie said. “We’d better unpack these ourselves.”

  They spent half an hour unbolting the rear panels, lowering them to the ground, and entering the containers. After that, they took only a few minutes to release the vehicles. Eddie got behind the wheel of the Explorer and flicked on the ignition. There was hardly any sound, just a soft whirr of the vacuum pump starting up. Thorne said, “How’s your charge?”

  “Full,” Eddie said.

  “Batteries okay?”

  “Yeah. Seem fine.”

  Eddie was relieved. He had supervised the conversion of these vehicles to electric power, but it was a rush job, and they hadn’t had time to test them thoroughly afterward. And though it was true that electric cars employed less complex technology than the internal-combustion engine—that chugging relic of the nineteenth century—Eddie knew that taking untested equipment into the field was always risky.

  Especially when that equipment also used the latest technology. That fact troubled Eddie more than he was willing to admit. Like most born mechanics, he was deeply conservative. He liked things to work—work, no matter what—and to him that meant using established, proven technology. Unfortunately, he had been voted down this time.

  Eddie had two particular areas of concern. One was the black photovoltaic panels, with their rows of octagonal silicon wafers, mounted on the roof and hood of the vehicles. These panels were efficient, and much less fragile than the old photovoltaics. Eddie had mounted them with special vibration-damping units of his own design. But the fact remained, if the panels were injured in any way, they would no longer be able to charge the vehicles, or run the electronics. All their systems would stop dead.