The Lost World - Michael Crichton [26]
“Then what?”
“It’s almost certainly a chemical reaction, such as exposure to acid, perhaps in aerosol form.”
“Like volcanic fumes?” Malcolm said.
“That could do it, particularly in view of what else we’ve learned. You’ll notice that the tag is rather thick—actually, it’s nine millimeters across. And it’s hollow.”
“Hollow?” Malcolm said, frowning.
“Yes. It contains an inner cavity. We didn’t want to open it, so we X-rayed it. Here.” The slide changed. Malcolm saw a jumble of white lines and boxes, inside the tag.
“There appears to be substantial corrosion, again perhaps from acid fumes. But there’s no question what this once was. It’s a radio tag, Ian. Which means that this unusual animal, this warm-blooded lizard or whatever it was, was tagged and raised by somebody from birth. And that’s the part that’s got people around here upset. Somebody’s raising these things. Do you know how that happened?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Malcolm said.
Elizabeth Gelman sighed. “You’re a lying son of a bitch.”
He held out his hand. “May I have my sample back?”
She said, “Ian. After all I’ve done for you.”
“The sample?”
“I think you owe me an explanation.”
“And I promise, you’ll have one. In about two weeks. I’ll buy dinner.”
She tossed a silver-foil package on the table. He picked it up, and slipped it in his pocket. “Thanks, Liz.” He got up to go. “I hate to run, but I’ve got to make a call right away.”
He started for the door, and she said, “By the way, how did it die, Ian? This animal.”
He paused. “Why do you ask?”
“Because, when we teased up the skin cells, we found a few foreign cells under the outer epidermal layer. Cells belonging to another animal.”
“Meaning what?”
“Well, it’s the typical picture you see when two lizards fight. They rub against each other. Cells get pushed under the superficial layer.”
“Yes,” he said. “There were signs of a fight on the carcass. The animal had been wounded.”
“And you should also know there were signs of chronic vasoconstriction in the arterial vessels. This animal was under stress, Ian. And not just from the fight that wounded it. That would have disappeared in early postmortem changes. I’m talking about chronic, continuous stress. Wherever this creature lived, its environment was extremely stressful and dangerous.”
“I see.”
“So. How come a tagged animal has such a stressful life?”
At the entrance to the zoo, he looked around to see if he was being followed, then stopped at a pay phone and dialed Levine. The machine picked up; Levine wasn’t there. Typical, Malcolm thought. Whenever you needed him he wasn’t there. Probably off trying to get his Ferrari out of impound again.
Malcolm hung up, and headed toward his car.
Thorne
“Thorne Mobile Field Systems” was stenciled in black lettering on a large rolling metal garage door, at the far end of the Industrial Park. There was a regular door to the left. Arby pushed the buzzer on a small box with a grille. A gruff voice said, “Go away.”
“It’s us, Dr. Thorne. Arby and Kelly.”
“Oh. Okay.”
There was a click as the door unlocked, and they walked inside. They found themselves in a large open shed. Workmen were making modifications on several vehicles; the air smelled of acetylene, engine oil, and fresh paint. Directly ahead Kelly saw a dark-green Ford Explorer with its roof cut open; two assistants stood on ladders, fitting a large flat panel of black solar cells over the top of the car. The hood of the Explorer was up, and the V-6 engine had been pulled out; workmen were now lowering a small, new engine in its place—it looked like a rounded shoebox, with the dull shine of aluminum alloy. Others were bringing the wide, flat rectangle of the Hughes converter that would be mounted on top of the motor.
Over to the right, she saw the two RV trailers that Thorne’s team had been working on for the last few weeks.