The Lost World

Makena said, "Dr. Harding? What do we do?"

"Go back," she said. "I have to pack."

"You’re leaving?"

"Yes," she said. "I’m leaving."

Message

Thorne drove to the airport, the lights of San Francisco disappearing behind them. Malcolm sat in the passenger seat. He looked back at the Explorer driving behind them and said, "Does Eddie know what this is all about?"

"Yes," Thorne said. "But I’m not sure he believes it."

"And the kids don’t know?"

"No," Thorne said.

There was a beeping alongside him. Thorne pulled out his little black Envoy, a radio pager. A light was flashing. He flipped up the screen, and handed it to Malcolm. "Read it for me."

"It’s from Arby," Malcolm said. "Says, ‘Have a good trip. If you want us, call. We’ll be standing by if you need our help.’ And he gives his phone number."

Thorne laughed. "You got to love those kids. They never give up. Then he frowned, as a thought occurred to him. "What’s the time on that message?"

"Four minutes ago," Malcolm said. "Came in via netcom."

"Okay. Just checking."

They turned right, toward the airport. They saw the lights in the distance. Malcolm stared forward gloomily. "It’s very unwise for us to be rushing off like this. It’s not the right way to go about it."

Thorne said, "We should be all right. As long as we have the right island."

"We do," Malcolm said.

"How do you know?"

"The most important clue was something I didn’t want the kids to know about. A few days ago, Levine saw the carcass of one of the animals."

"Oh?"

"Yes. He had a chance to look at it, before the officials burned it. And he discovered that it was tagged. He cut the tag off and sent it to me."

"Tagged? You mean like – "

"Yes. Like a biological specimen. The tag was old, and it showed pitting from sulfuric acid."

"Must be volcanic," Thorne said.

"Exactly."

"And you say it was an old tag?"

"Several years," Malcolm said. "But the most interesting finding was the way the animal died. Levine concluded the animal had been injured while it was still alive – a deep slashing cut in the leg that went right down to the bone."

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, thev 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.