The Lost World - Michael Crichton [120]
“Maybe,” she said. “But if there’s a differential death rate large enough to support this population, you should see evidence of carcasses, and lots of skeletons of dead animals. Have you seen that?”
Malcolm shook his head. “No. In fact, now that you mention it, I haven’t seen any skeletons at all.”
“Me neither.” She pushed the light away. “There’s something funny about this island, Ian.”
“I know,” Malcolm said.
“You do?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve suspected it from the beginning.”
Thunder rumbled. From the high hide, the plain below them was dark and silent, except for the distant snarling of the raptors. “Maybe we should go back,” Eddie said anxiously.
“Why?” Levine said. Levine had switched to his night-vision glasses, pleased with himself that he had thought to bring them. Through the goggles, the world was shades of pale green. He clearly saw the raptors at the kill site, the tall grass trampled and bloody all around. The carcass was long since finished, though they could still hear the cracking of bones as the animals gnawed on them.
“I just think,” Eddie said, “that now that it’s night, we’d be safer in the trailer.”
“Why?” Levine said.
“Well, it’s reinforced, it’s strong, and very safe. It has everything that we need. I just think we should be there. I mean, you’re not planning on staying out here all night, are you?”
“No,” Levine said. “What do you think I am, a fanatic?”
Eddie grunted.
“But let’s stay for a while longer,” Levine said.
Eddie turned to Thorne. “Doc? What do you say? It’s going to start raining soon.”
“Just a little longer,” Thorne said. “And then we’ll all go back together.”
“There have been dinosaurs on this island for five years, maybe more,” Malcolm said, “but none have appeared elsewhere. Suddenly, in the last year, carcasses of dead animals are showing up on the beaches of Costa Rica, and according to reports, on islands of the Pacific as well.”
“Carried by currents?”
“Presumably. But the question is, why now? Why all of a sudden, after five years? Something has changed, but we don’t know—wait a minute.” He moved away from the table, over to the computer console. He turned toward the screen.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Arby got us into the old network,” he said, “and it still has research files from the eighties.” He moved the mouse across the screen. “We haven’t looked at them. . . .” He saw the menu come up, showing work files and research files. He began to scroll through screens of text.
“Years ago, they had trouble with some disease,” he said. “There were a lot of notes about it in the laboratory.”
“What kind of disease?”
“They didn’t know,” Malcolm said.
“In the wild, there are some very slow-acting illnesses,” she said. “May take five or ten years to show up. Caused by viruses, or prions. You know, protein fragments—like scrapie or mad-cow disease.”
“But,” Malcolm said, “those diseases only come from eating contaminated food.”
There was a silence.
“What do you suppose they fed them, back then?” she asked. “Because if I was growing baby dinosaurs, I’d wonder. What do they eat? Milk, I suppose, but—”
“Milk, yes,” Malcolm said, reading the screens. “First six weeks, goat’s milk.”
“That’s the logical choice,” she said. “Goat’s milk is what they always use in zoos, because it’s so hypoallergenic. But what about later?”
“Give me a minute here,” Malcolm said.
Harding held the baby’s leg in her hand, waiting for the resin to harden. She looked at the cast, sniffed it. It was still strong-smelling. “I hope that’s all right,” she said. “Sometimes if there’s a distinctive smell, the animals won’t allow infants to return. But maybe this will dissipate after the compound hardens. How long has it been?”
Malcolm glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes. Another ten minutes and it’ll set.”
She said, “I’d like to take this guy back to the nest.”
Thunder rumbled. They looked out the window at the black night.
“Probably too late to return him tonight,” Malcolm