Malcolm’s reply was immediate: “What makes you think human beings are sentient and aware? There’s no evidence for it. Human beings never think for themselves, they find it too uncomfortable. For the most part, members of our species simply repeat what they are told—and become upset if they are exposed to any different view. The characteristic human trait is not awareness but conformity, and the characteristic result is religious warfare. Other animals fight for territory or food; but, uniquely in the animal kingdom, human beings fight for their ‘beliefs.’ The reason is that beliefs guide behavior, which has evolutionary importance among human beings. But at a time when our behavior may well lead us to extinction, I see no reason to assume we have any awareness at all. We are stubborn, self-destructive conformists. Any other view of our species is just a self-congratulatory delusion. Next question.”
Now, walking across the courtyard, Sarah Harding laughed. “They didn’t care for that.”
“I admit it’s discouraging,” he said. “But it can’t be helped.” He shook his head. “These are some of the best scientists in the country, and still . . . no interesting ideas. By the way, what’s the story on that guy who interrupted me?”
“Richard Levine?” She laughed. “Irritating, isn’t he? He has a worldwide reputation for being a pain in the ass.”
Malcolm grunted. “I’d say.”
“He’s wealthy, is the problem,” Harding said. “You know about the Becky dolls?”
“No,” Malcolm said, giving her a glance.
“Well, every little girl in America does. There’s a series: Becky and Sally and Frances, and several more. They’re Americana dolls. Levine is the heir of the company. So he’s a smartass rich kid. Impetuous, does whatever he wants.”
Malcolm nodded. “You have time for lunch?”
“Sure, I would be—”
“Dr. Malcolm! Wait up! Please! Dr. Malcolm!”
Malcolm turned. Hurrying across the courtyard toward them was the gangling figure of Richard Levine.
“Ah, shit,” Malcolm said.
“Dr. Malcolm,” Levine said, coming up. “I was surprised that you didn’t take my proposal more seriously.”
“How could I?” Malcolm said. “It’s absurd.”
“Yes, but—”
“Ms. Harding and I were just going to lunch,” Malcolm said, gesturing to Sarah.
“Yes, but I think you should reconsider,” Levine said, pressing on. “Because I believe my argument is valid—it is entirely possible, even likely, that dinosaurs still exist. You must know there are persistent rumors about animals in Costa Rica, where I believe you have spent time.”
“Yes, and in the case of Costa Rica I can tell you—”
“Also in the Congo,” Levine said, continuing. “For years there have been reports by pygmies of a large sauropod, perhaps even an apatosaur, in the dense forest around Bokambu. And also in the high jungles of Irian Jaya, there is supposedly an animal the size of a rhino, which perhaps is a remnant ceratopsian—”
“Fantasy,” Malcolm said. “Pure fantasy. Nothing has ever been seen. No photographs. No hard evidence.”
“Perhaps not,” Levine said. “But absence of proof is not proof of absence. I believe there may well be a locus of these animals, survivals from a past time.”
Malcolm shrugged. “Anything is possible,” he said.
“But in point of fact, survival is possible,” Levine insisted. “I keep getting calls about new animals in Costa Rica. Remnants, fragments.”
Malcolm paused. “Recently?”
“Not for a while.”
“Umm,” Malcolm said. “I thought so.”
“The last call was nine months ago,” Levine said. “I was in Siberia looking at that frozen baby mammoth, and I couldn’t get back in time. But I’m told it was some kind of very large, atypical lizard, found dead in the jungle of Costa Rica.”
“And? What happened to it?”
“The remains were burned.”
“So nothing is left?”
“That’s right.”
“No photographs? No proof?”
“Apparently not.”
“So it’s just a story,” Malcolm said.
“Perhaps. But I believe it is worth mounting an expedition, to find out about these reported survivals.”
Malcolm stared at him. “An expedition? To find a hypothetical Lost World? Who is going to pay for it?”
“I am,” Levine said. “I have already begun the preliminary planning.”
“But that could cost—”
“I don’t care what it costs,” Levine said. “The fact is, survival is possible, it has occurred in a variety of species from other genera, and it may be that there are survivals from the Cretaceous as well.”
“Fantasy,” Malcolm said again, shaking his head.
Levine paused, and stared at Malcolm. “Dr. Malcolm,” he said, “I must say I’m very surprised at your attitude. You’ve just presented a thesis and I am offering you a chance to prove it. I would have thought you’d jump at the opportunity.”
“My jumping days are over,” Malcolm said.
“But instead of taking me up on this, you—”
“I’m not interested in dinosaurs,” Malcolm said.
“But everyone is interested in dinosaurs.”
“Not me.” He turned on his cane, and started to walk off.
“By the way,” Levine said. “What were you doing in Costa Rica? I heard you were there for almost a year.”
“I was lying in a hospital bed. They couldn’t move me out of intensive care for six months. I couldn’t even get on a plane.”
“Yes,” Levine said. “I know you got hurt. But what were you doing there in the first place? Weren’t you looking for dinosaurs?”
Malcolm squinted at him in the bright sun, and leaned on his cane. “No,” he said. “I wasn’t.”
They were all three sitting at a small painted table in the corner of the Guadalupe Cafe, on the other side of the river. Sarah Harding drank Corona from the bottle, and watched the two men opposite her. Levine looked pleased to be with them, as if he had won some victory to be sitting at the table. Malcolm looked weary, like a parent who has spent too much time with a hyperactive child.
“You want to know what I’ve heard?” Levine said. “I’ve heard that a couple of years back, a company named InGen genetically engineered some dinosaurs and put them on an island in Costa Rica. But something went wrong, a lot of people were killed, and the dinosaurs were destroyed. And now nobody will talk about it, because of some legal angle. Nondisclosure agreements or something. And the Costa Rican government doesn’t want to hurt tourism. So nobody will talk. That’s what I’ve heard.”
Malcolm stared at him. “And you believe that?”
“Not at first, I didn’t,” Levine said. “But the thing is, I keep hearing it. The rumors keep floating around. Supposedly you, and Alan Grant, and a bunch of other people were there.”
“Did you ask Grant about it?”
“I asked him, last year, at a conference in Peking. He said it was absurd.”
Malcolm nodded slowly.
“Is that what you say?” Levine asked, drinking his beer. “I mean, you know Grant, don’t you?”
“No. I never met him.”