The Lost World

"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, Se?or Carr?"

"Correct."

"And your intended stay is less than one week?"

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

Rodríguez shuffled the papers again, as if looking for a hidden cule. "Well…"

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

"No problem, se?or. 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, Se?or 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, Se?or 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 Taca?o, and Isla Sorna, which is the big one farthest north,"

"Have you been there?"

"Never, se?or. 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 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, Se?or 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 tail 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?"