Micro - Michael Crichton [50]
“We need some kind of projectile weapon,” Karen said, “something that can kill at a distance—”
“A blowgun,” Rick broke in.
Karen shook her head. “Nah. It would be a tenth of an inch long. No good.”
“Wait, Karen. I could use a hollow piece of bamboo, I could use it full-size, half an inch long.”
Peter said, “And a wooden dart to fit in it.”
“Sure,” Rick said. “The dart sharpened by—”
“Heat,” Amar said, “as the tempering agent. But for poison—”
“Curare,” Peter said, getting up, looking around. “I bet lots of plants around here have—”
Rick interrupted, “That’s my specialty. If we could make a fire, we could boil bark and plant materials, and extract poison. And especially if we can find some piece of metal, iron…to make a dart point…”
“My belt buckle?” Amar said.
“And then what?”
“Boil the stuff. Then test it.”
“That takes a long time.”
“It’s the only way.”
“What about using the skin of a frog?” Erika Moll said. In the night, they heard the croaking of what seemed to be bullfrogs all around them.
Peter shook his head. “We don’t have the right kind here. What you’re hearing are bufos, large toads. They’re the size of your fist. Well, your old fist. They’re gray, not brightly colored. They do manufacture unpleasant skin toxins, they’re called bufotenins, not curare-based compounds of the Central American—”
“All right, for Christ’s sake!” Danny snapped.
“Just explaining…”
“We get the picture!”
Erika put her arm around Peter’s shoulder, nodded to Danny. He was still fussing with his nose, scratching at it with both hands, holding them curved as if they were little paws.
As if he were a mole.
“Cracking up?” Erika whispered fearfully.
Peter nodded.
Amar said, “To continue, the poison you recommend…”
Watching Danny, Peter said, “Bark scrapings of Strychnos toxifera tree, add oleander, sap not leaf, include Chondrodendron tomentosum if it’s available, boil the mixture for at least twenty-four hours.”
“Let’s get started,” Karen King said.
“We could find these plants a lot more easily in the morning light,” Jenny Linn said. “What’s the rush?”
“The rush,” Karen said, “is those halogen lamps back at the entrance. Right now Vin Drake could be heading here to kill us.” She swung the pack over her shoulders and tightened the straps. “So let’s get started.”
Chapter 13
Alapuna Road
29 October, 2:00 a.m.
In bright moonlight, they hadn’t much cover. The dense hau bush that clung to the cliff side stopped at the level of the dirt road, and it was only too easy to see the two cars driving along the narrow volcanic ridge. To the left, the land sloped down gently to agricultural fields. To the right, a steep cliff ended at crashing surf on the north shore of Oahu.
Alyson drove the first car, the Bentley convertible. Whenever she hesitated, Vin Drake waved her on from the second car, the BMW. They still had a distance to go to reach the washed-out bridge. Finally he could see it in the moonlight, cream-colored concrete from the 1920s; amazing it had lasted that long.
Alyson stopped and started to get out of the car. “No, no,” he said, waving her back in. “You have to dress it.”
“Dress it?”
“Yes. The students are all jammed into the Bentley, remember? They’re partying.” He was carrying a laundry bag full of clothes and other items he’d collected from what the students had left in the front office and in the Bentley parked at Nanigen: several phones, shorts, T-shirts, bathing suits, a towel, a couple of rolled-up issues of Nature and Science, a tablet computer—she started tossing the things at random around the car.
“No, no,” he said. “Alyson, please. We have to decide where everyone was sitting.”
“I’m nervous.”
“Very well, we still have to do it.”
“It’ll all get messed up when you push it over the cliff.”
“Alyson. We still have to do it.”
“But the police…the bodies will be missing. They won’t be in the car…”
“The water is full of rip currents. And sharks. The sea swallows the dead. That’s why we’re doing it this way, Alyson.”
“Okay, okay,” she answered wearily. “Who’s back rear?”
“Danny.