“I think we’re getting closer,” Chuck said. “I think this is the lake we camped by the first day — right after our tussle with the stegosaurs.”
“I think you’re wrong, Spencer,” Masterson said.
“Why?”
“Because I think we’ve been traveling in the wrong direction ever since we met the doctors, that’s why.”
“That’s no reason. You’re saying, ‘I think you’re wrong because I think you’re wrong.’ Why do you think so?”
“Call it intuition,” Masterson said. “Or just plain sense of direction. I know we’re heading in the wrong direction, though. I think we ought to start back from where we met the doctors and take it from there.”
Chuck sighed and ran his fingers through his short hair.
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.”
He realized abruptly that he was talking to Masterson, talking to him in civil tones. The memory of Owen came back sharply and poignantly, and he felt immensely guilty over having forgotten him so completely. He turned away from Masterson and walked down to the water’s edge, staring across the lake.
Was that the way it would be? Would Owen keep fading out of his mind until even the memory was lost? Would he eventually forget that Masterson had caused his brother’s death? Could he ever forget that?
Could he ever forget something as big and as obvious as, for example, the two white rocks there across the lake? Would that be the pattern of events? The memory would grow dimmer and dimmer and then it would fade completely until only...
Two white rocks!
He started so suddenly that he almost fell into the lake. His eyes opened wide, and he stared across the lake in surprised fascination.
“The rocks!” he shouted, pointing wildly. “The twin rocks! There they are!”
He whirled rapidly and ran back to the party.
“The rocks! Across the lake there. We’re not far from the site now. Those rocks are right near it.”
“Are you sure?” Arthur asked.
“I’m positive,” Chuck said. “I’m positive!” He clapped Arthur on the back. “We’re going to make it, Arthur. We’re going to make it.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Denise squealed.
“What are we standing around for then?” Pete asked. “Let’s eat and turn in early so we can get an early start in the morning.”
Chuck looked at the rocks again and then his eyes scanned the surrounding countryside. He was remembering how long it had taken them to get down to the lake’s edge. If they tried to cut through the growth again, working their slow way around the entire lake, they might not reach the site in time.
“Geometry,” he said suddenly.
Gardel looked up, a frown on his face. “What?”
“Geometry. The shortest distance between two points — and in this case, the fastest. A straight line!”
Dr. Dumar looked at the lake and then asked, “You want to cross it?”
“Exactly! Let’s have some supper. Then we’ll start building a raft. As soon as that’s done, we’ll be going on the only recorded Jurassic boat ride.”
“It might work,” Arthur said. “It just might work.”
Chuck looked at the twin white pinnacles again and then murmured so that no one heard him, “It has to work.”
Chapter 11
Vicious Swimmers
They didn’t start across the lake the next morning. Chuck was disappointed, but he shoved his disappointment aside and concentrated more ferociously on the task of building the raft. He had hoped they could complete the job the night before, after supper. But he had not taken into consideration two important points: the fact that the raft had to be a very large one in order to hold eight people, and the fact that their only tool was a rather dull ax.
They worked eagerly now, fighting against time, knowing that every minute counted.
By midmorning they were still no more than a quarter of the way finished. Chuck began to doubt the wisdom of deciding on the water route rather than the overland one. He saw gloom settle on the faces of every member of the party as the day wore on. Even Pete, cooking the remarkably modern-looking lobsters and crabs he had caught in the lake, did not look happy.
They concentrated their efforts on chopping down the large cycads first. The work was slow and back-breaking. The ax resembled the kind a boy scout carries in his belt. Chuck longed for a real ax — a lumberjack’s ax or, at least, a sharp ax.
They took turns. The ax changed hands at least a dozen times every half-hour. From Chuck to Arthur to Dr. Perry to Dr. Dumar and then around again — and around once more. Pete was busily adding to their food supply from the mollusks and decapods he found in the lake. Denise did not work because Chuck had refused her offer to wield the ax. The journey was really beginning to tell on her, and Chuck knew that the girl was bone-weary.
Masterson and Gardel refused to lend a hand in what they called “a fool’s venture.” Chuck didn’t try to force them. He was too busy working against time.
By noon they had what they felt to be enough felled trees and they set about the job of lashing them together. The raft not only had to be big, it also had to be strong enough to carry them across the long lake. Chuck was not discounting the possibility of meeting dinosaurs in the water, even though he could not see any from his position on the shore. The raft had to be strong enough to take a solid tail swipe or a head — on collision should they encounter any of the brutes. It also had to be strong enough to withstand the buffeting of the water.
It was not an easy job.
They used all the rope they had with them and then they cut vines and lashed these together, intertwining them with the slow patience of a weaver.
By three o’clock, without stopping for lunch, they had finished half the job. Pete left his boiled lobsters to grow cold and lent a much-needed hand on the raft. Denise began working on the vines, twining them together into the necessary lashings. Only Masterson and Gardel insisted they were heading in the wrong direction and adamantly refused to be a party to what they termed Chuck’s misdirection.
They all stopped for supper at six-thirty. By this time they were exhausted, and the day was almost gone. Chuck no longer hoped to get the raft in the water before nightfall. His only concern was to finish it in time for an early-morning start. They got to work immediately after supper and worked through until almost midnight, laboring in the light of a huge bonfire.
On the morning of the fifth day they launched their vessel. It was a mild day, the kind of day that made Chuck want to take off his shoes and lie on the shore with the sun strong on his bare chest. That kind of day. The lake reflected a flawless blue sky, opened overhead like a parasol. The ferns dipped gracefully under the mild caress of the breeze. It was a day meant for dreaming, a day that needed a fishing pole and a blade of grass sucked dry between the teeth. It was like the beginning of spring, and it gave Chuck the same feeling because he knew they would have half their problem solved once they crossed the lake.
He watched the shore line recede as the raft nosed out into the water. There was a strange happiness inside him, a happiness that nudged his heart, tempting it to burst open like a blossoming flower.
The raft left a mild wake behind it, wrinkles on the surface of the calm, mirror — like lake. It drifted away from the shore and the men dipped their paddles into the water. The raft reached out to gobble up distance like a hungry tortoise.