It was sobering to realize that the most accurate perception of dinosaurs had also been the first. Back in the 1840s, when Richard Owen first described giant bones in England, he named them Dinosauria: terrible lizards. That was still the most accurate description of these creatures, Malcolm thought. They were indeed like lizards, and they were terrible.
But since Owen, the “scientific” view of dinosaurs had undergone many changes. Because the Victorians believed in the inevitability of progress, they insisted that the dinosaurs must necessarily be inferior—why else would they be extinct? So the Victorians made them fat, lethargic, and dumb—big dopes from the past. This perception was elaborated, so that by the early twentieth century, dinosaurs had become so weak that they could not support their own weight. Apatosaurs had to stand belly-deep in water or they would crush their own legs. The whole conception of the ancient world was suffused with these ideas of weak, stupid, slow animals.
That view didn’t change until the 1960s, when a few renegade scientists, led by John Ostrom, began to imagine quick, agile, hot-blooded dinosaurs. Because these scientists had the temerity to question dogma, they were brutally criticized for years, even though it now seemed their ideas were correct.
But in the last decade, a growing interest in social behavior had led to still another view. Dinosaurs were now seen as caring creatures, living in groups, raising their little babies. They were good animals, even cute animals. The big sweeties had nothing to do with their terrible fate, which was visited on them by Alvarez’s meteor. And that new sappy view produced people like Tim, who were reluctant to look at the other side of the coin, the other face of life. Of course, some dinosaurs had been social and cooperative. But others had been hunters—and killers of unparalleled viciousness. For Malcolm, the truest picture of life in the past incorporated the interplay of all aspects of life, the good and the bad, the strong and the weak. It was no good pretending anything else.
Scaring little kids, indeed! Malcolm snorted irritably, as he walked down the hall.
In truth, Malcolm was bothered by what Elizabeth Gelman had told him about the tissue fragment, and especially the tag. That tag meant trouble, Malcolm was sure of it.
But he wasn’t sure what to do about it.
He turned the corner, past the display of Clovis points, arrowheads made by early man in America. Up ahead, he saw his office. Beverly, his assistant, was standing behind her desk, tidying papers, getting ready to go home. She handed him his faxes and said, “I’ve left word for Dr. Levine at his office, but he hasn’t called back. They don’t seem to know where he is.”
“For a change,” Malcolm said, sighing. It was so difficult working with Levine; he was so erratic, you never knew what to expect. Malcolm had been the one to post bail when Levine was arrested in his Ferrari. He riffled through the faxes: conference dates, requests for reprints . . . nothing interesting. “Okay. Thanks, Beverly.”
“Oh. And the photographers came. They finished about an hour ago.”
“What photographers?” he said.
“From Chaos Quarterly. To photograph your office.”
“What are you talking about?” Malcolm said.
“They came to photograph your office,” she said. “For a series about workplaces of famous mathematicians. They had a letter from you, saying it was—”
“I never sent any letter,” Malcolm said. “And I’ve never heard of Chaos Quarterly.”
He went into his office and looked around. Beverly hurried in after him, her face worried.
“Is it okay? Is everything here?”
“Yes,” he said, scanning quickly. “It seems to be fine.” He was opening the drawers to his desk, one after another. Nothing appeared to be missing.
“That’s a relief,” Beverly said, “because—”
He turned, and looked at the far side of the room.
The map.
Malcolm had a large map of the world, with pins stuck in it for all the sightings of what Levine kept calling “aberrant forms.” By the most liberal count—Levine’s count—there had now been twelve in all, from Rangiroa in the west, to Baja California and Ecuador in the east. Few of them were verified. But now there was a tissue sample that confirmed one specimen, and that made all the rest more likely.
“Did they photograph this map?”
“Yes, they photographed everything. Does it matter?”
Malcolm looked at the map, trying to see it with fresh eyes. To see what an outsider would make of it. He and Levine had spent hours in front of this map, considering the possibility of a “lost world,” trying to decide where it might be. They had narrowed it down to five islands in a chain, off the coast of Costa Rica. Levine was convinced that it was one of those islands, and Malcolm was beginning to think he was right. But those islands weren’t highlighted on the map. . . .
Beverly said, “They were a very nice group. Very polite. Foreign—Swiss, I think.”
Malcolm nodded, and sighed. The hell with it, he thought. It was bound to get out sooner or later.
“It’s all right, Beverly.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, it’s fine. Have a good evening.”
“Good night, Dr. Malcolm.”
Alone in his office, he dialed Levine. The phone rang, and then the answering machine beeped. Levine was still not home.
“Richard, are you there? If you are, pick up, it’s important.”
He waited, nothing happened.
“Richard, it’s Ian. Listen, we have a problem. The map is no longer secure. And I’ve had that sample analyzed, Richard, and I think it tells us the location of Site B, if my—”
There was a click as the phone lifted. He heard the sound of breathing.
“Richard?” he said.
“No,” said the voice, “this is Thorne. And I think you better get over here right away.”
The Five Deaths
“I knew it,” Malcolm said, coming into Levine’s apartment, and glancing quickly around. “I knew he would do something like this. You know how impetuous he is. I said to him, don’t go until we have all the information. But I should have known. Of course, he went.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Ego,” Malcolm said, shaking his head. “Richard has to be first. Has to figure it out first, has to get there first. I’m very concerned, he could ruin everything. This impulsive behavior: you realize it’s a storm in the brain, neurons on the edge of chaos. Obsession is just a variety of addiction. But what scientist ever had self-control? They instruct them in school: it’s bad form to be balanced. They forget Neils Bohr was not only a great physicist but an Olympic athlete. These days they all try to be nerds. It’s the professional style.”
Thorne looked at Malcolm thoughtfully. He thought he detected a competitive edge. He said, “Do you know which island he went to?”
“No. I do not.” Malcolm was stalking around the apartment, taking things in. “The last time we talked, we had narrowed it down to five islands, all in the south. But we hadn’t decided which one.”
Thorne pointed to the wallboard, the satellite images. “These islands here?”
“Yes,” Malcolm said, looking briefly. “They’re strung out in an arc, all about ten miles offshore from the bay of Puerto Cortés. Supposedly they’re all uninhabited. Local people call them the Five Deaths.”
“Why?” Kelly said.
“Some old Indian story,” Malcolm said. “Something about a brave warrior captured by a king who offered him his choice of deaths. Burning, drowning, crushing, hanging, decapitation. The warrior said he would take them all, and he went from island to island, experiencing the various challenges. Sort of a New World version of the labors of Hercules—”
“So that’s what it is!” Kelly said, and ran out of the room.
Malcolm looked blank.
He turned to Thorne, who shrugged.
Kelly returned, carrying the German children’s book in her hand. She gave it to Malcolm.
> “Yes,” he said. “Die Fünf Todesarten. The Five Ways of Death. Interesting that it is in German. . . .”
“He has lots of German books,” Kelly said.
“Does he? That bastard. He never told me.”
“That means something?” Kelly said.
“Yes, it means a lot. Hand me that magnifying glass, would you?”
Kelly gave him a magnifying glass from the desk. “What does it mean?”
“The Five Deaths are ancient volcanic islands,” he said. “Which means that they are geologically very rich. Back in the twenties, the Germans wanted to mine them.” He peered at the images, squinting. “Ah. Yes, these are the islands, no question. Matanceros, Muerte, Tacaño, Sorna, Pena . . . All names of death and destruction . . . All right. I think we may be close. Do we have any satellite pictures with spectrographic analyses of the cloud cover?”
Arby said, “Is that going to help you find Site B?”
“What?” Malcolm spun around. “What do you know about Site B?”
Arby was sitting at the computer, still working. “Nothing. Just that Dr. Levine was looking for Site B. And it was the name in the files.”
“What files?”
“I’ve recovered some InGen files from this computer. And, searching through old records, I found references to Site B. . . . But they’re pretty confusing. Like this one.” He leaned back, to let Malcolm look at the screen.
Malcolm frowned. “Curious, but not very helpful. It doesn’t tell us which island—or even if it’s on an island at all. What else have you got?”
“Well . . .” Arby flicked keys. “Let’s see. There’s this.”
Malcolm said, “Okay, so it’s an island. And Site B has a network—but a network of what? Computers?”
Arby said, “I don’t know. Maybe a radio network.”
“For what purpose?” Malcolm said. “What would a radio network be used for? This isn’t very helpful.”
Arby shrugged. He took it as a challenge. He began typing furiously again. Then said, “Wait! . . . Here’s another one . . . if I can just format it. . . . There! Got it!”
He moved away from the screen, so the others could see.
Malcolm looked and said, “Very good. Very good!”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Malcolm said, scanning the listing. “Can you print this out?”
“Sure.” Arby was beaming. “Is it really good?”
“It really is,” Malcolm said.