Micro - Michael Crichton [90]
He craned his neck, looking up along the tree’s trunk. The tree was young and small, and its crown was ablaze with red blossoms, as if the tree had burst into flame. “I think we should try to climb to the top,” Peter said.
“Why?” Rick asked.
Peter looked at his watch. “I’d like to get a view of the parking lot. To make sure we’re headed in the right direction. And to watch what happens in the parking lot.”
“Makes sense,” Rick said.
Peter and Rick pulled their heads in. The others sat huddled in the moss, with Amar between them wrapped in the silver blanket; he had finally fallen asleep. A bruise had developed on the side of his head, extending over his left temple. It might be just a bruise, or it might be a sign of the bends—in any case, they decided that Rick would remain with Amar to look after him, while the others would attempt to climb the tree. There were four radio headsets, all told. Rick would keep one radio, while the climbers would carry the others. Peter said, “We should keep radio silence, except in an emergency.”
“You think somebody from Nanigen could be listening?” Karen said.
“The radio’s range is only a hundred feet. But if Drake suspects we’re alive, he may be listening for us. And he’s capable of anything,” Peter answered.
They began climbing the tree. Peter led the way up the first pitch. He put on the belt with the reel and line attached to it, and carried the rope ladder from the backpack. Karen King took along Rick Hutter’s blowgun and the box of darts, and the jar of curare. Karen would serve as the expedition’s hunter.
Tree climbing proved to be extremely easy. Mosses and lichens, as well as the rough bark, offered plenty of handholds and footholds as they climbed. They were strong enough in the micro-world to be able to hang from something with one hand, even by just a few fingers. And it didn’t really matter if you fell. There was no real danger in a fall. You’d land on the ground unhurt.
They took turns lead-climbing. One person, secured by another with the reel and belt down below, would lead the way up the trunk carrying the rope ladder, which he would then secure to the tree and drop down to the others to climb.
The tree was covered with furrowed bark, and the bark was densely packed with mosses and liverworts—tiny plants, some of them almost microscopic in size, though to the micro-humans the mosses and liverworts seemed as big as shrubbery. The tree was also crusted with many kinds of lichens, frilly, lacy, and knobby. The leaves were rounded and leathery and the branches snaked around.
Eventually, Danny Minot gave up. “I can’t do this,” he said, and sat down and tucked himself into a lump of lichen in a sunny, warm spot.
“Do you want to stay here while the rest of us go on?” Peter asked.
“Actually, I’d prefer to be in the Algiers Coffeehouse in Harvard Square, drinking espresso and reading Wittgenstein.” Danny grinned weakly.
Peter handed him a radio headset. “Call if you have an emergency.”
“Okay.”
Peter put his hand on Danny’s shoulder. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Obviously not.” Danny tucked himself down into a frilly lichen.
“We can’t just give up, Danny.”
Danny scowled and leaned back in the lichen, and put on the radio headset. “Testing, testing,” he said into the radio. His voice crackled in their ears.
“Hey—radio silence,” Peter warned him.
“Vin Drake! Help! S.O.S. We’re stuck in a tree!” Danny shouted into his mike.
“Knock it off.”
“I was only joking.”
“Got a transmission.” Johnstone bent over the radio locator in the cockpit of the hexapod, earphones on his head. He started laughing. “Dumb bastards—they’re calling Drake for help.” His eyes moved upward, searched the canopy. “They’re in a tree somewhere above us.”
Telius grunted. A pair of binoculars hung around his neck. Telius stood up with the binoculars and began searching through the crowns of trees all around, looking for motion, listening for voices. The spies were somewhere up there. They were not going to be easy to find.