Or the woman. Sattler. She was walking along, too, just looking calmly around.
"Doesn't this bother you?" Gennaro said. "I mean, worry you?"
"We've got to do it," Grant said. He didn't say anything else.
They all walked forward, among the bubbling steam vents. Gennaro fingered the gas grenades that he had clipped to his belt. He turned to Ellie. "Why isn't he worried about it?"
"Maybe he is," she said. "But he's also thought about this for his whole life."
Gennaro nodded, and wondered what that would be like. Whether there was anything he had waited his whole life for. He decided there wasn't anything.
Grant squinted in the sunlight. Ahead, through veils of steam, an animal crouched, looking at them. Then it scampered away.
"Was that the raptor?" Ellie said.
"I think so. Or another one. juvenile, anyway."
She said, "Leading us on?"
"Maybe." Ellie had told him how the raptors had played at the fence to keep her attention while another climbed onto the roof. If true, such behavior implied a mental capacity that was beyond nearly all forms of life on earth. Classically, the ability to invent and execute plans was believed to be limited to only three species: chimpanzees, gorillas, and human beings. Now there was the possibility that a dinosaur might be able to do such a thing, too.
The raptor appeared again, darting into the light, then jumping away with a squeak. It really did seem to be leading them on.
Gennaro frowned. "How smart are they?" he said.
"If you think of them as birds," Grant said, "then you have to wonder. Some new studies show the gray parrot has as much symbolic intelligence as a chimpanzee. And chimpanzees can definitely use language. Now researchers are finding that parrots have the emotional development of a three-year-old child, but their intelligence is unquestioned. Parrots can definitely reason symbolically."
"But I've never heard of anybody killed by a parrot," Gennaro grumbled.
Distantly, they could bear the sound of the surf on the island shore. The volcanic fields were behind them now, and they faced a field of boulders. The little raptor climbed up onto one rock, and then abruptly disappeared.
"Where'd it go?" Ellie said.
Grant was listening to the earphones. The beeping stopped. "He's gone."
They hurried forward, and found in the midst of the rocks a small bole, like a rabbit hole. It was perhaps two feet in diameter. As they watched, the juvenile raptor reappeared, blinking in the light. Then it scampered away.
"No way," Gennaro said. "No way I'm going down there."
Grant said nothing. He and Ellie began to plug in equipment. Soon he had a small video camera attached to a hand-held monitor. He tied the camera to a rope, turned it on, and lowered it down the hole.
"You can't see anything that way," Gennaro said.
"Let it adjust," Grant said. There was enough light along the upper tunnel for them to see smooth dirt walls, and then the tunnel opened out-suddenly, abruptly. Over the microphone, they heard a squeaking sound. Then a lower, trumpeting sound. More noises, coming from many animals.
"Sounds like the nest, all right," Ellie said.
"But you can't see anything," Gennaro said. He wiped the sweat off his forehead.
"No," Grant said. "But I can hear. " He listened for a while longer, and then hauled the camera out, and set it on the ground. "Let's get started." He climbed up toward the bole. Ellie went to get a flashlight and a shock stick. Grant pulled the gas mask on over his face, and crouched down awkwardly, extending his legs backward.
"You can't be serious about going down there," Gennaro said.
Grant nodded. "It doesn't thrill me. I'll go first, then Ellie, then you come after."
"Now, wait a minute," Gennaro said, in sudden alarm. "Why don't we drop these nerve-gas grenades down the hole, then go down afterward? Doesn't that make more sense?"
"Ellie, you got the flashlight?"
She handed the flashlight to Grant.
"What about it?" Gennaro said. "What do you say?"
"I'd like nothing better," Grant said. He backed down toward the hole. "You ever seen anything die from poison gas?"
"No . . ."
"It generally causes convulsions. Bad convulsions."
"Well, I'm sorry if it's unpleasant, but-"
"Look," Grant said. "We're going into this nest to find out how many animals have hatched. If you kill the animals first, and some of them fall on the nests in their spasms, that will ruin our ability to see what was there. So we can't do that,"
"But-"
"You made these animals, Mr. Gennaro."
"I didn't."
"Your money did. Your efforts did. You helped create them. They're your creation. And you can't just kill them because you feel a little nervous now."
"I'm not a little nervous," Gennaro said. "I'm scared shi-"
"Follow me," Grant said. Ellie handed him a shock stick. He pushed backward through the hole, and grunted. "Tight fit."
Grant exhaled, and extended his arms forward in front of him, and there was a kind of whoosh, and he was gone.
The bole gaped, empty and black.
"What happened to him?" Gennaro said, alarmed.
Ellie stepped forward and leaned close to the hole, listening at the opening. She clicked the radio, said softly, "Alan?"
There was a long silence. Then they heard faintly: "I'm here."
"Is everything all right, Alan?"
Another long silence. When Grant finally spoke, his voice sounded distinctly odd, almost awestruck.
"Everything's fine," he said.
Almost Paradigm
In the lodge, John Hammond paced back and forth in Malcolm's room. Hammond was impatient and uncomfortable. Since marshaling the effort for his last outburst, Malcolm had slipped into a coma, and now it appeared to Hammond that he might actually die. Of course a helicopter had been sent for, but God knows when it would arrive. The thought that Malcolm might die in the meantime filled Hammond with anxiety and dread.
And, paradoxically, Hammond found it all much worse because he disliked the mathematician so much. It was worse than if the man were his friend. Hammond felt that Malcolm's death, should it occur, would be the final rebuke, and that was more than Hammond could bear.
In any case, the smell in the room was quite ghastly. Quite ghastly. The rotten decay of human flesh.
"Everything . . . parad . . ." Malcolm said, tossing on the pillow.
"Is he waking up?" Hammond said.
Harding shook his head.
"What did he say? Something about paradise?"
"I didn't catch it," Harding said.
Hammond paced some more. He pushed the window wider, trying to get some fresh air. Finally, when he couldn't stand it, he said, "Is there any problem about going outside?"
"I don't think so, no," Harding said. "I think this area is all right."
"Well, look, I'm going outside for a bit."
"All right," Harding said. He adjusted the flow on the intravenous antibiotics.
"I'll be back soon."
"All right."
Hammond left, stepping out into the daylight, wondering why he had bothered to justify himself to Harding. After all, the man was his employee. Hammond had no need to explain himself.
He went through the gates of the fence, looking around the park. It was late afternoon, the time when the blowing mist was thinned, and the sun sometimes came out. The sun was out now, and Hammond took it as an omen. Say what they would, he knew that his park had promise. And even if that impetuous fool Gennaro decided to burn it to the ground, it would not make much difference.
Hammond knew that in two separate vaults at InGen headquarters in Palo Alto were dozens of frozen embryos. It would not be a problem to grow them again, on another island, elsewhere in the world. And if there had been problems here, then the next time they would solve those problems. That was how progress occurred. By solving problems.
As he thought about it, he concluded that Wu had not really been the man for the job. Wu had obviously been sloppy, too casual with his great undertaking. And Wu had been too preoccupied with the idea of making improvements. Instead of making dinosaurs, he had wanted to improve on them. Hammond suspected darkly that was the reason for the downfall of the park.
Wu was the reason.
Also, he had to admit that John Arnold was ill suited for the job of chief engineer. Arnold had impressive credentials, but at this point in his career he was tired, and he was a fretful worrier. He hadn't been organized, and he had missed things. Important things.
In truth, neither Wu nor Arnold had had the most important characteristic, Hammond decided. The characteristic of vision. That great sweeping act of imagination which evoked a marvelous park, where children pressed against the fences, wondering at the extraordinary creatures, come alive from their storybooks. Real vision. The ability to see the future. The ability to marshal resources to make that future vision a reality.
No, neither Wu nor Arnold was suited to that task.
And, for that matter, Ed Regis had been a poor choice, too. Harding was at best an indifferent choice. Muldoon was a drunk.. . .
Hammond shook his head. He would do better next time.
Lost in his thoughts, he headed toward his bungalow, following the little path that ran north from the visitor center. He passed one of the workmen, who nodded curtly. Hammond did not return the nod. He found the Tican workmen to be uniformly insolent. To tell the truth, the choice of this island off Costa Rica had also been unwise. He would not make such obvious mistakes again-