The Lost World

  “Maybe you’re right,” Malcolm said. “And then again, maybe you’re not.”

  Puerto Cortés

  “No flights?” Sarah Harding said. “What do you mean, there are no flights?” It was eleven o’clock in the morning. Harding had been flying for the last fifteen hours, much of it spent on a U.S. military transport that she’d caught from Nairobi to Dallas. She was exhausted. Her skin felt grimy; she needed a shower and a change of clothes. Instead she found herself arguing with this very stubborn official in a ratty little town on the west coast of Costa Rica. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the sky was still gray, with low-hanging clouds over the deserted airfield.

  “I am sorry,” Rodríguez said. “No flights can be arranged.”

  “But what about the helicopter that took the men earlier?”

  “There is a helicopter, yes.”

  “Where is it?”

  “The helicopter is not here.”

  “I can see that. But where is it?”

  Rodríguez spread his hands. “It has gone to San Cristóbal.”

  “When will it be back?”

  “I do not know. I think tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.”

  “Señor Rodríguez,” she said firmly, “I must get to that island today.”

  “I understand your wish,” Rodríguez said. “But I cannot do anything to help this.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  Rodríguez shrugged. “I could not make a suggestion.”

  “Is there a boat that will take me?”

  “I do not know of a boat.”

  “This is a harbor,” Harding said. She pointed out the window. “I see all sorts of boats out there.”

  “I know. But I do not believe one will go to the islands. The weather is not so favorable.”

  “But if I were to go down to—”

  “Yes, of course.” Rodríguez sighed. “Of course you may ask.”

  Which was how she found herself, shortly after eleven o’clock on a rainy morning, walking down the rickety wooden dock, with her backpack on her shoulder. Four boats were tied up to the dock, which smelled strongly of fish. But all the boats seemed to be deserted. All the activity was at the far end of the dock, where a much larger boat was tied up. Beside the boat, a red Jeep Wrangler was being strapped for loading, along with several large steel drums and wooden crates of supplies. She admired the car in passing; it had been specially modified, enlarged to the size of the Land Rover Defender, the most desirable of all field vehicles. Changing this Jeep must have been an expensive alteration, she thought: only for researchers with lots of money.

  Standing on the dock, a pair of Americans in wide-brimmed sun hats were shouting and pointing as the Jeep lifted lopsidedly into the air, and was swung onto the deck of the boat with an ancient crane. She heard one of the men shout “Careful! Careful!” as the Jeep thudded down hard on the wooden deck. “Damn it, be careful!” Several workmen began to carry the boxes onto the ship. The crane swung back to pick up the steel drums.

  Harding went over to the nearest man and said politely, “Excuse me, but I wonder if you could help me.”

  The man glanced at her. He was medium height, with reddish skin and bland features; he looked awkward in new khaki safari clothes. His manner was preoccupied and tense. “I’m busy now,” he said, and turned away. “Manuel! Watch it, that’s sensitive equipment!”

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” she continued, “but my name is Sarah Harding, and I’m trying—”

  “I don’t care if you’re Sarah Bernhardt, the—Manuel! Damn it!” The man waved his arms. “You there! Yes, you! Hold that box upright!”

  “I’m trying to get to Isla Sorna,” she said, finishing.

  At this, the man’s entire demeanor changed. He turned back to her slowly. “Isla Sorna?” he said. “You’re not associated with Dr. Levine by any chance, are you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, suddenly breaking into a warm smile. “What do you know!” He extended his hand. “I’m Lew Dodgson, from the Biosyn Corporation, back in Cupertino. This is my associate, Howard King.”

  “Hi,” the other man said, nodding. Howard King was younger and taller than Dodgson, and he was handsome in a clean-cut California way. Sarah recognized his type: a classic beta male animal, subservient to the core. And there was something odd about his behavior toward her: he moved a little away, and seemed as uncomfortable around her as Dodgson now seemed friendly.

  “And up there,” Dodgson continued, pointing onto the deck, “is our third, George Baselton.”

  Harding saw a heavyset man on the deck, bent over the boxes as they came on board. His shirtsleeves were soaked in sweat. She said, “Are you all friends of Richard?”

  “We’re on our way over to see him right now,” Dodgson said, “to help him out.” He hesitated, frowning at her. “But, uh, he didn’t tell us about you. . . .”

  She was suddenly aware then of how she must appear to him: a short woman in her thirties, wearing a rumpled shirt, khaki shorts, and heavy boots. Her clothes dirty, her hair unkempt after all the flights.

  She said, “I know Richard through Ian Malcolm. Ian and I are old friends.”

  “I see. . . .” He continued to stare at her, as if he was unsure of her in some way.

  She felt compelled to explain. “I’ve been in Africa. I decided to come here at the last minute,” she said. “Doc Thorne called me.”

  “Oh, of course. Doc.” The man nodded, and seemed to relax, as if everything now made sense to him.

  She said, “Is Richard all right?”

  “Well, I certainly hope so. Because we’re taking all this equipment to him.”

  “You’re going to Sorna now?”

  “We are, if this weather holds,” Dodgson said, glancing at the sky. “We should be ready to go in five or ten minutes. You know, you’re welcome to join us, if you need a ride,” he said cheerfully. “We could use the company. Where’s your stuff?”

  “I’ve only got this,” she said, lifting her small backpack.

  “Traveling light, eh? Well, good, Ms. Harding. Welcome to the party.”

  He seemed entirely open and friendly now. It was such a marked change from his earlier behavior. But she noticed that the handsome man, King, remained distinctly uneasy. King turned his back to her, and acted very busy, shouting at the workmen to be careful with the last of the wooden crates, which were marked “Biosyn Corporation” in stenciled lettering. She had the impression he was avoiding looking at her. And she still hadn’t gotten a good look at the third man, on deck. It made her hesitate.

  “You’re sure it’s all right. . . .”

  “Of course it’s all right! We’d be delighted!” Dodgson said. “Besides, how else are you going to get there? There’s no planes, the helicopter is gone.”

  “I know, I checked. . . .”

  “Well, then, you know. If you want to get to the island, you’d better go with us.”

  She looked at the Jeep on the boat, and said, “I think Doc must already be there, with his equipment.”

  At the mention of that, the second man, King, snapped his head around in alarm. But Dodgson just nodded calmly and said, “Yes, I think so. He left last night, I believe.”

  “That’s what he said to me.”

  “Right.” Dodgson nodded. “So he’s already there. At least, I hope he is.”

  From on deck, there were shouts in Spanish, and a captain in greasy overalls came and looked over the side. “Señor Dodgson, we are ready.”

  “Good,” Dodgson said. “Excellent. Climb aboard, Ms. Harding. Let’s get going!”

  King

  Spewing black smoke, the fishing boat chugged out of the harbor, heading toward open sea. Howard King felt the rumble of the ship’s engines beneath his feet, heard the creak of the wood. He listened to the shouts of the crewmen in Spanish. King looked back at the little town of Puerto Cortés, a jumble of little houses clustered around the
water’s edge. He hoped this damn boat was seaworthy—because they were out in the middle of nowhere.

  And Dodgson was cutting corners. Taking chances again.

  It was the situation King feared most.

  Howard King had known Lewis Dodgson for almost ten years, ever since he had joined Biosyn as a young Berkeley Ph.D., a promising researcher with the energy to conquer the world. King had done his doctoral thesis on blood-coagulation factors. He had joined Biosyn at a time of intense interest in those factors, which seemed to hold the key to dissolving clots in patients with heart attacks. There was a race among biotech companies to develop a new drug that would save lives, and make a fortune as well.

  Initially, King worked on a promising substance called Hemaggluttin V-5, or HGV-5. In early tests it dissolved platelet aggregation to an astonishing degree. King became the most promising young researcher at Biosyn. His picture was prominently featured in the annual report. He had his own lab, and an operating budget of nearly half a million dollars.

  And then, without warning, the bottom fell out. In preliminary tests on human subjects, HGV-5 failed to dissolve clots in either myocardial infarctions or pulmonary embolisms. Worse, it produced severe side effects: gastrointestinal bleeding, skin rashes, neurological problems. After one patient died from convulsions, the company halted further testing. Within weeks, King lost his lab. A newly arrived Danish researcher took it over; he was developing an extract from the saliva of the Sumatran yellow leech, which showed more promise.

  King moved to a smaller lab, decided he was tired of blood factors, and turned his attention to painkillers. He had an interesting compound, the L-isomer of a protein from the African horny toad, which seemed to have narcotic effects. But he had lost his former confidence, and when the company reviewed his work, they concluded that his research was insufficiently documented to warrant seeking FDA approvals for testing. His horny-toad project was summarily canceled.

  King was then thirty-five, and twice a failure. His picture no longer graced the annual report. It was rumored that the company would probably let him go at the next review period. When he proposed a new research project, it was rejected at once. It was a dark time in his life.

  Then Lewis Dodgson suggested they have lunch.

  Dodgson had an unsavory reputation among the researchers; he was known as “The Undertaker,” because of the way he took over the work of others, and prettied it up as his own. In earlier years, King never would have been seen with him. But now he allowed Dodgson to take him to an expensive seafood restaurant in San Francisco.

  “Research is hard,” Dodgson said, sympathetically.

  “You can say that again,” King said.

  “Hard, and risky,” Dodgson said. “The fact is, innovative research rarely pans out. But does management understand? No. If the research fails, you’re the one who’s blamed. It’s not fair.”

  “Tell me,” King said.

  “But that’s the name of the game.” Dodgson shrugged, and speared a leg of soft-shell crab.

  King said nothing.

  “Personally, I don’t like risk,” Dodgson continued. “And original work is risky. Most new ideas are bad, and most original work fails. That’s the reality. If you feel compelled to do original research, you can expect to fail. That’s all right if you work in a university, where failure is praised and success leads to ostracism. But in industry . . . no, no. Original work in industry is not a wise career choice. It’s only going to get you into trouble. Which is where you are right now, my friend.”

  “What can I do?” King said.

  “Well,” Dodgson said. “I have my own version of the scientific method. I call it focused research development. If only a few ideas are going to be good, why try to find them yourself? It’s too hard. Let other people find them—let them take the risk—let them go for the so-called glory. I’d rather wait, and develop ideas that already show promise. Take what’s good, and make it better. Or at least, make it different enough so that I can patent it. And then I own it. Then, it’s mine.”

  King was amazed at the straightforward way that Dodgson admitted he was a thief. He didn’t seem in the least embarrassed. King poked at his salad for a while. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I see something in you,” Dodgson said. “I see ambition. Frustrated ambition. And I’m telling you, Howard, you don’t have to be frustrated. You don’t even have to be fired from the company at the next performance review. Which is exactly what’s going to happen. How old is your kid?”

  “Four,” King said.

  “Terrible, to be out of work, with a young family. And it won’t be easy to get another job. Who’s going to give you a chance now? By thirty-five, a research scientist has already made his mark, or he’s not likely to. I don’t say that’s right, but that’s how they think.”

  King knew that’s how they thought. At every biotechnology company in California.

  “But Howard,” Dodgson said, leaning across the table, lowering his voice, “a wonderful world awaits you, if you choose to look at things differently. There’s a whole other way to live your life. I really think you should consider what I’m saying.”

  Two weeks later, King became Dodgson’s personal assistant in the Department of Future Biogenic Trends, which was how Biosyn referred to its efforts at industrial espionage. And in the years that followed, King had once again risen swiftly at Biosyn—this time because Dodgson liked him.

  Now King had all the accoutrements of success: a Porsche, a mortgage, a divorce, a kid he saw on weekends. All because King had proven to be the perfect second in command, working long hours, handling the details, keeping his fast-talking boss out of trouble. And in the process, King had come to know all the sides of Dodgson—his charismatic side, his visionary side, and his dark, ruthless side. King told himself that he could handle the ruthless side, that he could keep it in check, that over the years he had learned how to do that.

  But sometimes, he was not so sure.

  Like now.

  Because here they were, in some rickety stinking fishing boat, heading out into the ocean off some desolate village in Costa Rica, and in this tense moment Dodgson had suddenly decided to play some kind of game, meeting this woman and deciding to take her along.

  King didn’t know what Dodgson intended, but he could see the intense gleam in Dodgson’s eyes that he had seen only a few times before, and it was a look that always alarmed him.

  The woman Harding was now up on the foredeck, standing near the bow. She was looking off at the ocean. King saw Dodgson walking around the Jeep, and beckoned to him nervously.

  “Listen,” King said, “we have to talk.”

  “Sure,” Dodgson said, easily. “What’s on your mind?”

  And he smiled. That charming smile.

  Harding

  Sarah Harding stared at the gray, menacing sky. The boat rolled in the heavy offshore swell. The deckhands scrambled to tie down the Jeep, which threatened repeatedly to break free. She stood in the bow, fighting seasickness. On the far horizon, dead ahead, she could just see the low black line that was their first glimpse of Isla Sorna.

  She turned and looked back, and saw Dodgson and King were huddled by the railing amidships, in intense conversation. King seemed to be upset, gesticulating rapidly. Dodgson was listening, and shaking his head. After a moment, he put his arm on King’s shoulder. He seemed to be trying to calm the younger man down. Both men ignored the activity around the Jeep. Which was odd, she thought, considering how worried they had been earlier about the equipment. Now they didn’t seem to care.

  As for the third man, Baselton, she had of course recognized him, and she was surprised to find him here on this little fishing boat. Baselton had shaken her hand in a perfunctory way, and he had disappeared belowdecks as soon as the ship pulled away from the dock. He had not reappeared. But perhaps he was seasick, too.

  As she continued to watch, she saw Dodgson break away from King, and hurry over
to supervise the deckhands. Left alone, King went to check on the straps that lashed the boxes and barrels to the deck farther aft. The boxes marked “Biosyn.”

  Harding had never heard of the Biosyn Corporation. She wondered what connection Ian and Richard had with it. Whenever Ian was around her, he had always been critical, even contemptuous, of biotechnology companies. And these men seemed to be unlikely friends. They were too rigid, too . . . geeky.

  But then, she reflected, Ian did have strange friends. They were always showing up unexpectedly at his apartment—the Japanese calligrapher, the Indonesian gamalan troupe, the Las Vegas juggler in a shiny bolero jacket, that weird French astrologer who thought the earth was hollow. . . . And then there were his mathematician friends. They were really crazy. Or so they seemed to Sarah. They were so wild-eyed, so wrapped up in their proofs. Pages and pages of proofs, sometimes hundreds of pages. It was all too abstract for her. Sarah Harding liked to touch the dirt, to see the animals, to experience the sounds and the smells. That was real to her. Everything else was just a bunch of theories: possibly right, possibly wrong.

  Waves began to crash over the bow, and she moved a little astern, to keep dry. She yawned; she hadn’t slept much in the last twenty-four hours. Dodgson finished working on the Jeep, and came over to her.

  She said, “Everything all right?”

  “Oh yes,” Dodgson said, smiling cheerfully.

  “Your friend King seemed upset.”

  “He doesn’t like boats,” Dodgson said. He nodded to the waves. “But we’re making better time. It’ll only be an hour or so, until we land.”

  “Tell me,” she said. “What is the Biosyn Corporation? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s a small company,” Dodgson said. “We make what are called consumer biologicals. We specialize in recreational and sports organisms. For example, we engineered new kinds of trout, and other game fish. We’re making new kinds of dogs—smaller pets for apartment dwellers. That sort of thing.”