The Lost World

by Michael Crichton

  “Only the most famous young animal behaviorist in the world, Arb.” Sarah Harding was one of Kelly’s personal heroes. Kelly had read every article she could about her. Sarah Harding had been a poor scholarship student at the University of Chicago but now, at thirty-three, she was an assistant professor at Princeton. She was beautiful and independent, a rebel, who went her own way. She had chosen the life of a scientist in the field, living alone in Africa, where she studied lions and hyenas. She was famously tough. Once, when her Land Rover broke down, she walked twenty miles across the savannah all by herself, driving away lions by throwing rocks at them.

  In photographs, Sarah was usually posed in shorts and a khaki shirt, with binoculars around her neck, next to a Land Rover. With her short, dark hair and her strong, muscular body, she looked rugged but glamorous at the same time. At least, that was how she appeared to Kelly, who always studied the pictures intently, taking in every detail.

  “Never heard of her,” Arby said.

  Thorne said, “Spending too much time with computers, Arby?”

  Arby said, “No.” Kelly saw Arby’s shoulders hunch, and he sort of withdrew into himself, the way he always did when he felt criticized. Sulky, he said, “Animal behaviorist?”

  “That’s right,” Thorne said. “I know Levine’s talked to her several times in the last few weeks. She’s helping him with all this equipment, when it finally goes into the field. Or advising him. Or something. Or maybe the connection is with Malcolm. After all, she was in love with Malcolm.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Kelly said. “Maybe he was in love with her. . . .”

  Thorne looked at her. “You’ve met her?”

  “No. But I know about her.”

  “I see.” Thorne said no more. He could see all the signs of hero worship, and he approved. A girl could do worse than admire Sarah Harding. At least she wasn’t an athlete or a rock star. In fact, it was refreshing for a kid to admire somebody who actually tried to advance knowledge. . . .

  The phone continued to ring. There was no answer.

  “Well, we know Levine’s equipment is in order,” Thorne said. “Because the call is going through. We know that much.”

  Arby said, “Can you trace it?”

  “Unfortunately, no. And if we keep this up, we’ll probably drain the field battery, which means—”

  There was a click, and they heard a man’s voice, remarkably distinct and clear: “Levine.”

  “Okay. Good. He’s there,” Thorne said, nodding. He pushed the button on his handset. “Richard? It’s Doc Thorne.”

  Over the speakerphone, they heard a sustained static hiss. Then a cough, and a scratchy voice said: “Hello? Hello? It’s Levine here.”

  Thorne pressed the button on his phone. “Richard. It’s Thorne. Do you read me?”

  “Hello?” Levine said, at the other end. “Hello?”

  Thorne sighed. “Richard. You have to press the ‘T’ button, for transmit. Over.”

  “Hello?” Another cough, deep and rasping. “This is Levine. Hello?”

  Thorne shook his head in disgust. “Obviously, he doesn’t know how to work it. Damn! I went over it very carefully with him. Of course he wasn’t paying attention. Geniuses never pay attention. They think they know everything. These things aren’t toys.” He pushed the send button. “Richard, listen to me. You must push the ‘T’ in order to—”

  “This is Levine. Hello? Levine. Please. I need help.” A kind of groan. “If you can hear me, send help. Listen, I’m on the island, I managed to get here all right, but—”

  A crackle. A hiss.

  “Uh-oh,” Thorne said.

  “What is it?” Arby said, leaning forward.

  “We’re losing him.”

  “Why?”

  “Battery,” Thorne said. “It’s going fast. Damn. Richard: where are you?”

  Over the speakerphone, they heard Levine’s voice: “—dead already—situation got—now—very serious—don’t know—can hear me, but if you—get help—”

  “Richard. Tell us where you are!”

  The phone hissed, the transmission getting steadily worse. They heard Levine say: “—have me surrounded, and—vicious—can smell them especially—night—”

  “What is he talking about?” Arby said.

  “—to—injury—can’t—not long—please—”

  And then there was a final, fading hiss.

  And suddenly the phone went dead.

  Thorne clicked off his own handset, and turned off the speakerphone. He turned to the kids, who were both pale. “We have to find him,” he said. “Right away.”

  SECOND CONFIGURATION

  “Self-organization elaborates in complexity as the system advances toward the chaotic edge.”

  IAN MALCOLM

  Clues

  Thorne unlocked the door to Levine’s apartment, and flicked on the lights. They stared, astonished. Arby said, “It looks like a museum!”

  Levine’s two-bedroom apartment was decorated in a vaguely Asian style, with rich wooden cabinets, and expensive antiques. But the apartment was spotlessly clean, and most of the antiques were housed in plastic cases. Everything was neatly labeled. They walked slowly into the room.

  “Does he live here?” Kelly said. She found it hard to believe. The apartment seemed so impersonal to her, almost inhuman. And her own apartment was such a mess all the time. . . .

  “Yeah, he does,” Thorne said, pocketing the key. “It always looks like this. It’s why he can never live with a woman. He can’t stand to have anybody touch anything.”

  The living-room couches were arranged around a glass coffee table. On the table were four piles of books, each neatly aligned with the glass edge. Arby glanced at the titles. Catastrophe Theory and Emergent Structures. Inductive Processes in Molecular Evolution. Cellular Automata. Methodology of Non-Linear Adaptation. Phase Transition in Evolutionary Systems. There were also some older books, with titles in German.

  Kelly sniffed the air. “Something cooking?”

  “I don’t know,” Thorne said. He went into the dining room. Along the wall, he saw a hot plate with a row of covered dishes. They saw a polished wood dining table, with a place set for one, silver and cut glass. Soup steamed from a bowl.

  Thorne walked over and picked up a sheet of paper on the table and read: “Lobster bisque, baby organic greens, seared ahi tuna.” A yellow Post-it was attached. “Hope your trip was good! Romelia.”

  “Wow,” Kelly said. “You mean somebody makes dinner for him every day?”

  “I guess,” Thorne said. He didn’t seem impressed; he shuffled through a stack of unopened mail that had been set out beside the plate. Kelly turned to some faxes on a nearby table. The first one was from the Peabody Museum at Yale, in New Haven. “Is this German?” she said, handing it to Thorne.

  Dear Dr. Levine:

  Your requested document:

  “Geschichtliche Forschungsarbeiten über die Geologie Zentralamerikas, 1922–1929”

  has been sent by Federal Express today.

  Thank you.

  (signed)

  Dina Skrumbis, Archivist

  “I can’t read it,” Thorne said. “But I think it’s ‘Something Researches on the Geology of Central America.’ And it’s from the twenties—not exactly hot news.”

  “I wonder why he wanted it?” she said.

  Thorne didn’t answer her. He went into the bedroom.

  The bedroom had a spare, minimal look, the bed a black futon, neatly made. Thorne opened the closet doors, and saw racks of clothing, everything pressed, neatly spaced, much of it in plastic. He opened the top dresser drawer and saw socks folded, arranged by color.

  “I don’t know how he can live like this,” Kelly said.

  “Nothing to it,” Thorne said. “All you need is servants.” He opened the other drawers quickly, one after another.

  Kelly wandered over to the bedside table. There were several books there. The one on top was very sm
all, and yellowing with age. It was in German; the title was Die Fünf Todesarten. She flipped through it, saw colored pictures of what looked like Aztecs in colorful costumes. It was almost like an illustrated children’s book, she thought.

  Underneath were books and journal articles with the dark-red cover of the Santa Fe Institute: Genetic Algorithms and Heuristic Networks. Geology of Central America, Tessellation Automata of Arbitrary Dimension. The 1989 Annual Report of the InGen Corporation. And next to the telephone, she noticed a sheet of hastily scribbled notes. She recognized the precise handwriting as Levine’s.

  It said:

  “SITE B”

  Vulkanische

  Tacaño?

  Nublar?

  1 of 5 Deaths?

  in mtns? No!!!

  maybe Guitierrez

  careful

  Kelly said, “What’s Site B? He has notes about it.”

  Thorne came over to look. “Vulkanische,” he said. “That means ‘volcanic,’ I think. And Tacaño and Nublar . . . They sound like place names. If they are, we can check that on an atlas. . . .”

  “And what’s this about one of five deaths?” Kelly said.

  “Damned if I know,” he said.

  They were staring at the paper when Arby walked into the bedroom and said, “What’s Site B?”

  Thorne looked up. “Why?”

  “You better see his office,” Arby said.

  Levine had turned the second bedroom into an office. It was, like the rest of the apartment, admirably neat. There was a desk with papers laid out in tidy stacks alongside a computer, covered in plastic. But behind the desk there was a large corkboard that covered most of the wall. And on this board, Levine had tacked up maps, charts, newspaper clippings, Landsat images, and aerial photographs. At the top of the board was a large sign that said “Site B?”

  Alongside that was a blurred, curling snapshot of a bespectacled Chinese man in a white lab coat, standing in the jungle beside a wooden sign that said “Site B.” His coat was unbuttoned, and he was wearing a tee shirt with lettering on it.

  Alongside the photo was a large blowup of the tee shirt, as seen in the original photograph. It was hard to read the lettering, which was partly covered on both sides by the lab coat, but the shirt seemed to say:

  nGen Site B

  esearch Facili

  In neat handwriting, Levine had noted: “InGen Site B Research Facility???? WHERE???”

  Just below that was a page cut from the InGen Annual Report. A circled paragraph read:

  In addition to its headquarters in Palo Alto, where InGen maintains an ultra-modern 200,000 square foot research laboratory, the company runs three field laboratories around the world. A geological lab in South Africa, where amber and other biological specimens are acquired; a research farm in the mountains of Costa Rica, where exotic varieties of plants are grown; and a facility on the island of Isla Nublar, 120 miles west of Costa Rica.

  Next to that Levine had written: “No B! Liars!”

  Arby said, “He’s really obsessed with Site B.”

  “I’ll say,” Thorne said. “And he thinks it’s on an island somewhere.”

  Peering closely at the board, Thorne looked at the satellite images. He noticed that although they were printed in false colors, at various degrees of magnification, they all seemed to show the same general geographical area: a rocky coastline, and some islands offshore. The coastline had a beach, and encroaching jungle; it might be Costa Rica, but it was impossible to say for sure. In truth, it could be any of a dozen places in the world.

  “He said he was on an island,” Kelly said.

  “Yes.” Thorne shrugged. “But that doesn’t help us much.” He stared at the board. “There must be twenty islands here, maybe more.”

  Thorne looked at a memo, near the bottom.

  SITE B @#$#TO ALL DEPARTMENTS OF[]****

  MINDER OF%$#@#!PRESS AVOIDAN******

  Mr. Hammond wishes to remind all****after^*&^marketing

  *%**Long-term marketing plan*&^&^%

  Marketing of proposed resort facilities requires that full complexity of JP technology not be revealed announced made known. Mr. Hammond wishes to remind all departments that Production facility will not be topic subject of any press release or discussion at any time.

  Production/manufacturing facility cannot be#@#$#

  reference to production island loc

  Isla S. inhouse reference only

  strict press***^%$**guidelines

  “This is weird,” he said. “What do you make of this?”

  Arby came over, and looked at it thoughtfully.

  “All these missing letters and garbage,” Thorne said. “Does it make any sense to you?”

  “Yes,” Arby said. He snapped his fingers, and went directly to Levine’s desk. There, he pulled the plastic cover off the computer, and said, “I thought so.”

  The computer on Levine’s desk was not the modern machine that Thorne would have expected. This computer was several years old, large and bulky, its cover scratched in many places. It had a black stripe on the box that said “Design Associates, Inc.” And lower down, right by the power switch, a shiny little metal tag that said “Property International Genetics Technology, Inc., Palo Alto, CA.”

  “What’s this?” Thorne said. “Levine has an InGen computer?”

  “Yes,” Arby said. “He sent us to buy it last week. They were selling off computer equipment.”

  “And he sent you?” Thorne said.

  “Yeah. Me and Kelly. He didn’t want to go himself. He’s afraid of being followed.”

  “But this thing’s a CAD-CAM machine, and it must be five years old,” Thorne said. CAD-CAM computers were used by architects, graphic artists, and mechanical engineers. “Why would Levine want it?”

  “He never told us,” Arby said, flipping on the power switch. “But I know now.”

  “Yes?”

  “That memo,” Arby said, nodding to the wall. “You know why it looks that way? It’s a recovered computer file. Levine’s been recovering InGen files from this machine.”

  As Arby explained it, all the computers that InGen sold that day had had their hard drives reformatted to destroy any sensitive data on the disks. But the CAD-CAM machines were an exception. These machines all had special software installed by the manufacturer. The software was keyed to individual machines, using individual code references. That made these computers awkward to reformat, because the software would have to be reinstalled individually, taking hours.

  “So they didn’t do it,” Thorne said.

  “Right,” Arby said. “They just erased the directory, and sold them.”

  “And that means the original files are still on the disk.”

  “Right.”

  The monitor glowed. The screen said:

  TOTAL RECOVERED FILES: 2,387

  “Jeez,” Arby said. He leaned forward, staring intently, fingers poised over the keys. He pushed the directory button, and row after row of file names scrolled down. Thousands of files in all.

  Thorne said, “How are you going to—”

  “Give me a minute here,” Arby said, interrupting him. Then he began to type rapidly.

  “Okay, Arb,” Thorne said. He was amused by the imperious way Arby behaved whenever he was working with a computer. He seemed to forget how young he was, his usual diffidence and timidity vanished. The electronic world was really his element. And he knew he was good at it.

  Thorne said, “Any help you can give us will be—”

  “Doc,” Arby said. “Come on. Go and, uh, I don’t know. Help Kelly or something.”

  And he turned away, and typed.

  Raptor

  The velociraptor was six feet tall and dark green. Poised to attack, it hissed loudly, its muscular neck thrust forward, jaws wide. Tim, one of the modelers, said, “What do you think, Dr. Malcolm?”

  “No menace,” Malcolm said, walking by. He was in the back wing of the biology department, on hi
s way to his office.

  “No menace?” Tim said.

  “They never stand like this, flatfooted on two feet. Give him a book”—he grabbed a notebook from a desk, and placed it in the forearms of the animal—“and he might be singing a Christmas carol.”

  “Gee,” Tim said. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

  “Bad?” Malcolm said. “This is an insult to a great predator. We should feel his speed and menace and power. Widen the jaws. Get the neck down. Tense the muscles, tighten the skin. And get that leg up. Remember, raptors don’t attack with their jaws—they use their toe-claws,” Malcolm said. “I want to see the claw raised up, ready to slash down and tear the guts out of its prey.”

  “You really think so?” Tim said doubtfully. “It might scare little kids. . . .”

  “You mean it might scare you.” Malcolm continued down the hallway. “And another thing: change that hissing sound. It sounds like somebody taking a pee. Give this animal a snarl. Give a great predator his due.”

  “Gee,” Tim said, “I didn’t know you had such personal feelings about it.”

  “It should be accurate,” Malcolm said. “You know, there is such a thing as accurate and inaccurate. Irrespective of whatever your feelings are.” He walked on, irritable, ignoring the momentary pain in his leg. The modeler annoyed him, although he had to admit Tim was just a representative of the current, fuzzy-minded thinking—what Malcolm called “sappy science.”

  Malcolm had long been impatient with the arrogance of his scientific colleagues. They maintained that arrogance, he knew, by resolutely ignoring the history of science as a way of thought. Scientists pretended that history didn’t matter, because the errors of the past were now corrected by modern discoveries. But of course their forebears had believed exactly the same thing in the past, too. They had been wrong then. And modern scientists were wrong now. No episode of science history proved it better than the way dinosaurs had been portrayed over the decades.