"Four minutes ago," Malcolm said. "Came in via netcom."
"Okay. Just checking."
They turned right, toward the airport. They saw the lights in the distance. Malcolm stared forward gloomily. "It's very unwise for us to be rushing off like this. It's not the right way to go about it."
Thorne said, "We should be all right. As long as we have the right island."
"We do," Malcolm said.
"How do you know?"
"The most important clue was something I didn't want the kids to know about. A few days ago, Levine saw the carcass of one of the animals."
"Oh?"
"Yes. He had a chance to look at it, before the officials burned it. And he discovered that it was tagged. He cut the tag off and sent it to me."
"Tagged? You mean like - "
"Yes. Like a biological specimen. The tag was old, and it showed pitting from sulfuric acid."
"Must be volcanic," Thorne said.
"Exactly."
"And you say it was an old tag?"
"Several years," Malcolm said. "But the most interesting finding was the way the animal died. Levine concluded the animal had been injured while it was still alive - a deep slashing cut in the leg that went right down to the bone."
Thorne said, "You're saying the animal was injured by another dinosaur.
"Yes. Exactly.
They drove a moment in silence. "Who else besides us knows about this island?"
"I don't know," Malcolm said. "But somebody's trying to find out. My office was broken into today, and photographed."
"Great." Thorne sighed. "But you didn't know where the island was, did you?"
"No. I hadn't put it together yet."
"Do you think anybody else has?"
"No," Malcolm said. "We re on our own."
Exploitation
Lewis Dodgson threw open the door marked ANIMAL QUARTERS, and immediately all the dogs began barking. Dodgson walked down the corridor between the rows of cages, stacked ten feet high on both sides. The building was large; the Biosyn Corporation of Cupertino, California, required an extensive animal-testing facility.
Walking alongside him, Rossiter, the head of the company, gloomily brushed the lapels of his Italian suit. "I hate this fucking place," he said. "Why did you want me to come here?"
"Because," Dodgson said. "We need to talk about the future."
"Stinks in here," Rossiter said. He glanced at his watch. "Get on with it, Lew."
"We can talk in here." Dodgson led him to a glass-walled superintendent's booth, in the center of the building. The glass cut down the sound of the barking. But through the windows, thev could look out at the rows of animals.
"It's simple," Dodgson said, starting to pace, "But I think it's important."
Lewis Dodgson was forty-five years old, bland-faced and balding. His features were youthful, and his manner was mild. But appearances were deceiving - the baby-faced Dodgson was one of the most ruthless and aggressive geneticists of his generation. Controversy had dogged his career: as a graduate student at Hopkins, he had been dismissed for planning human gene therapy without FDA permission. Later, after joining Biosyn, he had conducted a controversial rabies-vaccine test in Chile - the illiterate farmers who were the subjects were never informed they were being tested.
In each case, Dodgson explained that he was a scientist in a hurry, and could not be held back by regulations drawn up for lesser souls. He called himself "results-oriented," which really meant he did whatever he considered necessary to achieve his goal. He was also a tireless self-promoter. Within the company, Dodgson presented himself as a researcher, even though he lacked the ability to do original research, and had never done any. His intellect was fundamentally derivative; he never conceived of anything until someone else had thought of it first.
He was very good at "developing" research, which meant stealing someone else's work at an early stage. In this, he was without scruple and without peer. For many years he had run the reverse-engineering section at Biosyn, which in theory examined competitors' products and determined how they were made. But in practice, "reverse engineering" involved a great deal of industrial espionage.
Rossiter, of course, had no illusions about Dodgson. He disliked him, and avoided him as much as possible. Dodgson was always taking chances, cutting corners; he made Rossiter uneasy. But Rossiter also knew that modern biotechnology was highly competitive. To stay competitive, every company needed a man like Dodgson. And Dodgson was very good at what he did.
"I'll come right to the pint," Dodgson said, turning to Rossiter. "If we act quickly, I believe we have an opportunity to acquire the InGen technology."
Rossiter sighed. "Not again…"
"I know, Jeff. I know how you feel. I admit, there is some history here."
"History? The only history is you failed - time and again. We've tried this, back door and front door. Hell, we even tried to buy the company when it was in Chapter 11, because you told us it would be available. But it turned out it wasn't. The Japanese wouldn't sell."
"I understand, Jeff. But let's not forget - "
"What I can't forget," Rossiter said, "is that we paid seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars to your friend Nedry, and have nothing to show for it."
"But Jeff - "
"Then we paid five hundred thousand to that Dai-Ichl marriage broker. Nothing to show for that, either. Our attempts to acquire InGen technology have been a complete fucking failure. That's what I can't forget."
"But the point," Dodgson said, "is that we kept trying for a good reason. This technology is vital to the future of the company."
"So you say."
"The world is changing, Jeff. I'm talking about solving one of the major problems this company faces in the twenty-first century."
"Which is?"
Dodgson pointed out the window, at the barking dogs. "Animal testing. Let's face it, Jeff. every year, we get more pressure not to use animals for testing and research. Every year, more demonstrations, more break-ins, more bad press. First it was just simple-minded zealots and Hollywood celebrities. But now it's a bandwagon: even university philosophers are beginning to argue that it's unethical for monkeys, and dogs, and even rats to be subjected to the indignities of laboratory research. We've even had some protests about our 'exploitation' of squid, even though they're on dinner tables all over the world. I'm telling you, Jeff, there's no end to this trend. Eventually, somebody's going to say we can't even exploit bacteria to make genetic products."
" Oh, come on."
"Just wait. It'll happen. And it'll shut us down. Unless we have a genuinely created animal. Consider - an animal that is extinct, and is brought back to life, is for all practical purposes not an animal at all. It can't have any rights. It's already extinct. So if it exists, it can only be something we have made. We made it, we patent it, we own it. And it is a perfect research testbed. And we believe that the enzyme and hormoiie systems of dinosaurs are identical to mammalian systems. In the future, drugs can be tested on small dinosaurs as successfully as they are now tested on dogs and rats-with much less risk of legal challenge."
Rossiter was shaking his head. "You think."
"I know. They're basically big lizards, Jeff. And nobody loves a lizard. They're not like these cute doggies that lick your hand and break your heart. Lizards have no personality. They're snakes with legs."
Rossiter sighed.
"Jeff. We're talking about real freedom, here. Because, at the moment, everything to do with living animals is tied up in legal and moral knots. Big-game hunters can't shoot a lion or an elephant - the same animals their fathers and grandfathers used to shoot, and then pose proudly for a photo. Now there are forms, licenses, expenses - and plenty of guilt. These days, you don't dare shoot a tiger and admit it afterward. In the modern world, it's a much more serious transgression to shoot a tiger than to shoot your parents. Tigers have advocates. But now imagine: a specially stocked hunting preserve, maybe somewhere in Asia, where individuals of wealth and importance could hunt tyrannosaurs and triceratops in a natural setting. It would be an incredibly desirable attraction. How many hunters have a stuffed elk head on their wall? The world's full of them. But how many can claim to have a snarling tyranosaurus head, hanging above the wet bar?"