Michael Crichton - Jurassic Park

Jurassic Park

Michael Crichton

The right of Michael Crichton to be identified as the author of this work has

been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents

Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 1991 by the

Random Century Group

20 Vauxhall Bridge Rd,

London SWIV 2SA

Century Hutchinson South Africa (Pty) Ltd

PO Box 337, Bergvlei 2012

South Africa

Random Century Australia Pty Ltd

20 Alfred St, Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061

Australia

Random Century New Zealand Ltd

PO Box 40-086, Glenfield, Auckland 10

New Zealand

A CIP Catalogue Record for this book is available

from the British Library

ISBN: 0 7126 4686 8

Printed in England by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

For A-M

and

T

"Reptiles are abhorrent because of their cold body, pale color, cartilaginous skeleton, filthy skin, fierce

aspect, calculating eye, offensive smell, harsh voice, squalid habitation, and terrible venom; wherefore

their Creator has not exerted his powers to make many of them."

LINNAEUS, 1797

"You cannot recall a new form of life."

ERWIN CHARGAFF, 1972

Introduction

"The InGen Incident"

The late twentieth century has witnessed a scientific gold rush of astonishing proportions: the headlong and

furious haste to commercialize genetic engineering. This enterprise has proceeded so rapidly-with so little

outside commentary-that its dimensions and implications are hardly understood at all.

Biotechnology promises the greatest revolution in human history. By the end of this decade, it will have

outdistanced atomic power and computers in its effect on our everyday lives. In the words of one observer,

"Biotechnology is going to transform every aspect of human life: our medical care, our food, our health,

our entertainment, our very bodies. Nothing will ever be the same again. It's literally going to change the

face of the planet."

But the biotechnology revolution differs in three important respects from past scientific transformations.

First, it is broad-based. America entered the atomic age through the work of a single research institution,

at Los Alamos. It entered the computer age through the efforts of about a dozen companies. But

biotecbnology research is now carried out in more than two thousand laboratories in America alone. Five

hundred corporations spend five billion dollars a year on this technology.

Second, much of the research is thoughtless or frivolous. Efforts to engineer paler trout for better

visibility in the stream, square trees for easier lumbering, and injectable scent cells so you'll always smell

of your favorite perfume may seem like a joke, but they are not. Indeed, the fact that biotechnology can be

applied to the industries traditionally subject to the vagaries of fashion, such as cosmetics and leisure

activities, heightens concern about the whimsical use of this powerful new technology.

Third, the work is uncontrolled. No one supervises it. No federal laws regulate it. There is no coherent

government policy, in America or anywhere else in the world. And because the products of biotechnology

range from drugs to farm crops to artificial snow, an intelligent policy is difficult.

But most disturbing is the fact that no watchdogs are found among scientists themselves. It is remarkable

that nearly every scientist in genetics research is also engaged in the commerce of biotechnology. There are

no detached observers. Everybody has a stake.

The commercialization of molecular biology is the most stunning ethical event in the history of science,

and it has happened with astonishing speed. For four hundred years since Galileo, science has always

proceeded as a free and open inquiry into the workings of nature. Scientists have always ignored national

boundaries, holding themselves above the transitory concerns of politics and even wars. Scientists have

always rebelled against secrecy in research, and have even frowned on the idea of patenting their

discoveries, seeing themselves as working to the benefit of all mankind. And for many generations, the

discoveries of scientists did indeed have a peculiarly selfless quality.

When, in 1953, two young researchers in England, James Watson and Francis Crick, deciphered the

structure of DNA, their work was bailed as a triumph of the human spirit, of the centuries-old quest to

understand the universe in a scientific way. It was confidently expected that their discovery would be

selflessly extended to the greater benefit of mankind.

Yet that did not happen. Thirty years later, nearly all of Watson and Crick's scientific colleagues were

engaged in another sort of enterprise entirely. Research in molecular genetics had become a vast,

multibillion dollar commercial undertaking, and its origins can be traced not to 1953 but to April 1976.

That was the date of a now famous meeting, in which Robert Swanson, a venture capitalist, approached

Herbert Boyer, a biochemist at the University of California. The two men agreed to found a commercial

company to exploit Boyer's gene-splicing techniques. Their new company, Genentech, quickly became the

largest and most successful of the genetic engineering start-ups.

Suddenly it seemed as if everyone wanted to become rich. New companies were announced almost

weekly, and scientists flocked to exploit genetic research. By 1986, at least 362 scientists, including 64 in

the National Academy, sat on the advisory boards of biotech firms. The number of those who held equity

positions or consultancies was several times greater.

It is necessary to emphasize how significant this shift in attitude actually was. In the past, pure scientists

took a snobbish view of business. They saw the pursuit of money as intellectually uninteresting, suited only

to shopkeepers. And to do research for industry, even at the prestigious Bell or IBM labs, was only for

those who couldn't get a university appointment. Thus the attitude of pure scientists was fundamentally

critical toward the work of applied scientists, and to industry in general. Their long-standing antagonism

kept university scientists free of contaminating industry ties, and whenever debate arose about

technological matters, disinterested scientists were available to discuss the issues at the highest levels.

But that is no longer true. There are very few molecular biologists and very few research institutions

without commercial affiliations. The old days are gone. Genetic research continues, at a more furious pace

than ever. But it is done in secret, and in haste, and for profit.

In this commercial climate, it is probably inevitable that a company as ambitious as International Genetic

Technologies, Inc., of Palo Alto, would arise. It is equally unsurprising that the genetic crisis it created

should go unreported. After all, InGen's research was conducted in secret; the actual incident occurred in

the most remote region of Central America; and fewer than twenty people were there to witness it. Of

those, only a handful survived.

Even at the end, when International Genetic Technologies filed for Chapter 11 protection in San

Francisco Superior Court on October 5, 1989, the proceedings drew little press attention. It appeared so

ordinary: InGen was the third small American bioengineering company to fail that year, and the seventh

since 1986. Few court documents were made public, since the creditors were Japanese investment

consortia, such as Hamaguri and Densaka, companies which traditionally shun publicity. To avoid

unnecessary disclosure, Daniel Ross, of Cowan, Swain and Ross, counsel for InGen, also represented the

Japanese investors. And the rather unusual petition of the vice consul of Costa Rica was heard behind

closed doors. Thus it is not surprising that, within a month, the problems of InGen were quietly and

amicably settled.

Parties to that settlement, including the distinguished scientific board of advisers, signed a nondisclosure

agreement, and none will speak about what happened-but many of the principal figures in the "InGen

incident" are not signatories, and were willing to discuss the remarkable events leading up to those final

two days in August 1989 on a remote island off the west coast of Costa Rica.

JURASSIC PARK

Prologue:

The Bite of the Raptor

The tropical rain fell in drenching sheets, hammering the corrugated roof of the clinic building, roaring

down the metal gutters, splashing on the ground in a torrent. Roberta Carter sighed, and stared out the

window. From the clinic, she could hardly see the beach or the ocean beyond, cloaked in low fog. This

wasn't what she had expected when she had come to the fishing village of Bah¡a Anasco, on the west coast

of Costa Rica, to spend two months as a visiting physician. Bobbie Carter had expected sun and relaxation,

after two grueling years of residency in emergency medicine at Michael Reese in Chicago.

She had been in Bah¡a Anasco now for three weeks. And it had rained every day.

Everything else was fine. She liked the isolation of Bah¡a Anasco, and the friendliness of its people.

Costa Rica had one of the twenty best medical systems in the world, and even in this remote coastal

village, the clinic was well maintained, amply supplied. Her paramedic, Manuel Arag6n, was intelligent

and well trained. Bobbie was able to practice a level of medicine equal to what she had practiced in

Chicago.

But the rain! The constant, unending rain!

Across the examining room, Manuel cocked his head. "Listen," he said.

"Believe me, I hear it," Bobbie said.

"No. Listen."

And then she caught it, another sound blended with the rain, a deeper rumble that built and emerged

until it was clear: the rhythmic thumping of a helicopter. She thought, They can't be flying in weather like

this.

But the sound built steadily, and then the helicopter burst low through the ocean fog and roared

overhead, circled, and came back. She saw the helicopter swing back over the water, near the fishing boats,

then case sideways to the rickety wooden dock, and back toward the beach.

It was looking for a place to land.

It was a big-bellied Sikorsky with a blue stripe on the side, with the words "InGen Construction." That

was the name of the construction company building a new resort on one of the offshore islands. The resort

was said to be spectacular, and very complicated; many of the local people were employed in the

construction, which had been going on for more than two years. Bobbie could imagine it-one of those huge

American resorts with swimming pools and tennis courts, where guests could play and drink their daiquiris

without having any contact with the real life of the country.

Bobbie wondered what was so urgent on that island that the helicopter would fly in this weather.

Through the windshield she saw the pilot exhale in relief as the helicopter settled onto the wet sand of the

beach. Uniformed men jumped out, and flung open the big side door. She heard frantic shouts in Spanish,

and Manuel nudged her.

They were calling for a doctor.

Two black crewmen carried a limp body toward her, while a white man barked orders. The white man had

a yellow slicker. Red hair appeared around the edges of his Mets baseball cap. "Is there a doctor here?" he

called to her, as she ran up.

"I'm Dr. Carter," she said. The rain fell in heavy drops, pounding her head and shoulders. The red-halted

man frowned at her. She was wearing cut-off jeans and a tank top. She had a stethoscope over her

shoulder, the bell already rusted from the salt air.

"Ed Regis. We've got a very sick man here, doctor."

"Then you better take him to San Jos‚," she said. San Jos‚ was the capital, just twenty minutes away by

air.

"We would, but we can't get over the mountains in this weather. You have to treat him here."

Bobbie trotted alongside the injured man as they carried him to the clinic. He was a kid, no older than

eighteen. Lifting away the blood-soaked shirt, she saw a big slashing rip along his shoulder, and another on

the leg.

"What happened to him?"

"Construction accident," Ed shouted. "He fell. One of the backhoes ran over him."

The kid was pale, shivering, unconscious.

Manuel stood by the bright green door of the clinic, waving his arm. The men brought the body through

and set it on the table in the center of the room. Manuel started an intravenous line, and Bobbie swung the

light over the kid and bent to examine the wounds. Immediately she could see that it did not look good.

The kid would almost certainly die.

A big tearing laceration ran from his shoulder down his torso. At the edge of the wound, the flesh was

shredded. At the center, the shoulder was dislocated, pale bones exposed. A second slash cut through the

heavy muscles of the thigh, deep enough to reveal the pulse of the femoral artery below. Her first

impression was that his leg had been ripped open.

"Tell me again about this injury," she said.

"I didn't see it," Ed said. "They say the backhoe dragged him."

"Because it almost looks as if he was mauled," Bobbie Carter said, probing the wound. Like most

emergency room physicians, she could remember in detail patients she had seen even years before. She had

seen two maulings. One was a two-year-old child who had been attacked by a Rottweiler dog. The other

was a drunken circus attendant who had had an encounter with a Bengal tiger. Both injuries were similar.

There was a characteristic look to an animal attack.

"Mauled?" Ed said. "No, no. It was a backhoe, believe me." Ed licked his lips as he spoke. He was edgy,

acting as if he had done something wrong. Bobbie wondered why. If they were using inexperienced local

workmen on the resort construction, they must have accidents all the time.

Manuel said, "Do you want lavage?"

"Yes," she said. "After you block him."

She bent lower, probed the wound with her fingertips. If an earth mover had rolled over him, dirt would

be forced deep into the wound. But there wasn't any dirt, just a slippery, slimy foam. And the wound had a

strange odor, a kind of rotten stench, a smell of death and decay. She had never smelled anything like it

before.

"How long ago did this happen?"

"An hour."

Again she noticed how tense Ed Regis was. He was one of those eager, nervous types. And he didn't

look like a construction foreman. More like an executive. He was obviously out of his depth.

Bobbie Carter turned back to the injuries. Somehow she didn't think she was seeing mechanical trauma.

It just didn't look right. No soil contamination of the wound site, and no crush-injury component.

Mechanical trauma of any sort-an auto injury, a factory accident-almost always had some component of

crushing. But here there was none. Instead, the man's skin was shredded -ripped-across his shoulder, and

again across his thigh.

It really did look like a maul. On the other hand, most of the body was unmarked, which was unusual for

an animal attack. She looked again at the head, the arms, the hands -

The hands.

She felt a chill when she looked at the kid's bands. There were short slashing cuts on both palms, and

bruises on the wrists and forearms. She had worked in Chicago long enough to know what that meant.

"All right," she said. "Wait outside."

"Why?" Ed said, alarmed. He didn't like that.

"Do you want me to help him, or not?" she said, and pushed him out the door and closed it on his face.

She didn't know what was going on, but she didn't like it. Manuel hesitated. "I continue to wash?"

"Yes," she said. She reached for her little Olympus point-and-shoot. She took several snapshots of the

injury, shifting her light for a better view. It really did look like bites, she thought. Then the kid groaned,

and she put her camera aside and bent toward him. His lips moved, his tongue thick.

"Raptor," he said. "Lo sa raptor . . . "

At those words, Manuel froze, stepped back in horror.

"What does it mean?" Bobbie said.

Manuel shook his head. "I do not know, doctor. 'Lo sa raptor'-no es espa¤ol "

"No?" It sounded to her like Spanish. "Then please continue to wash him."

"No, doctor." He wrinkled his nose. "Bad smell." And he crossed himself.

Bobbie looked again at the slippery foam streaked across the wound. She touched it, rubbing it between

her fingers. It seemed almost like saliva. . . .

The injured boy's lips moved. "Raptor," he whispered.

In a tone of horror, Manuel said, "It bit him."

"What bit him?"

"Raptor."

"What's a raptor?"

"It means hupia."

Bobbie frowned. The Costa Ricans were not especially superstitious, but she had heard the hupia

mentioned in the village before. They were said to be night ghosts, faceless vampires who kidnapped small

children. According to the belief, the hupia had once lived in the mountains of Costa Rica, but now

inhabited the islands offshore.

Manuel was backing away, murmuring and crossing himself. "It is not normal, this smell," he said. "It is

the hupia."

Bobbie was about to order him back to work when the injured youth opened his eyes and sat straight up

on the table. Manuel shrieked in terror. The injured boy moaned and twisted his head, looking left and right

with wide staring eyes, and then he explosively vomited blood. He went immediately into convulsions, his

body vibrating, and Bobbie grabbed for him but he shuddered off the table onto the concrete floor. He

vomited again. There was blood everywhere. Ed opened the door, saying, "What the hell's happening?" and

when he saw the blood he turned away, his hand to his mouth. Bobbie was grabbing for a stick to put in the

boy's clenched jaws, but even as she did it she knew it was hopeless, and with a final spastic jerk he

relaxed and lay still.

She bent to perform mouth-to-mouth, but Manuel grabbed her shoulder fiercely, pulling her back. "No,"

he said. "The hupia will cross over."

"Manuel, for God's sake-"

"No." He stared at her fiercely. "No. You do not understand these things."

Bobbie looked at the body on the ground and realized that it didn't matter; there was no possibility of

resuscitating him. Manuel called for the men, who came back into the room and took the body away. Ed

appeared, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, muttering, "I'm sure you did all you could," and then

she watched as the men took the body away, back to the helicopter, and it lifted thunderously up into the

sky.

"It is better," Manuel said.

Bobbie was thinking about the boy's hands. They had been covered with cuts and bruises, in the

characteristic pattern of defense wounds. She was quite sure he had not died in a construction accident; he

had been attacked, and he had held up his bands against his attacker. "Where is this island they've come

from?" she asked.

"In the ocean. Perhaps a hundred, hundred and twenty miles offshore," "Pretty far for a resort," she said.

Manuel watched the helicopter. "I hope they never come back."

Well, she thought, at least she had pictures. But when she turned back to the table, she saw that her

camera was gone.

The rain finally stopped later that night. Alone in the bedroom behind the clinic, Bobbie thumbed through

her tattered paperback Spanish dictionary. The boy had said "raptor," and, despite Manuel's protests, she

suspected it was a Spanish word. Sure enough, she found it in her dictionary. It meant "ravisher" or

"abductor."

That gave her pause. The sense of the word was suspiciously close to the meaning of hupia. Of course

she did not believe in the superstition. And no ghost had cut those hands. What had the boy been trying to

tell her?

From the next room, she heard groans. One of the village women was in the first stage of labor, and

Elena Morales, the local midwife, was attending her. Bobbie went into the clinic room and gestured to

Elena to step outside for a moment.

"Elena . . ."

"S¡, doctor?"

"Do you know what is a raptor?"

Elena was gray-haired and sixty, a strong woman with a practical, no-nonsense air. In the night, beneath

the stars, she frowned and said, "Raptor?"

"Yes, You know this word?"

" S¡." Elena nodded. "It means . . . a person who comes in the night and takes away a child."

"A kidnapper?"

"Yes."

"A hupia?"

Her whole manner changed. "Do not say this word, doctor."

"Why not?"

"Do not speak of hupia now," Elena said firmly, nodding her head toward the groans of the laboring

woman. "It is not wise to say this word now.

"But does a raptor bite and cut his victims?"

"Bite and cut?" Elena said, puzzled. "No, doctor. Nothing like this. A raptor is a man who takes a new

baby." She seemed irritated by the conversation, impatient to end it. Elena started back toward the clinic. "I

will call to you when she is ready, doctor. I think one hour more, perhaps two."

Bobbie looked at the stars, and listened to the peaceful lapping of the surf at the shore. In the darkness

she saw the shadows of the fishing boats anchored offshore. The whole scene was quiet, so normal, she felt

foolish to be talking of vampires and kidnapped babies.

Bobbie went back to her room, remembering again that Manuel had insisted it was not a Spanish word.

Out of curiosity, she looked in the little English dictionary, and to her surprise she found the word there,

too:

raptor \ n [deriv. of L. raptor plunderer, fr. Raptus]: bird of prey.

FIRST ITERATION

"At the earliest drawings of the fractal curve, few clues to the

underlying mathematical structre will be seen."

IAN MALCOLM

Almost Paradise

Mike Bowman whistled cheerfully as he drove the Land Rover through the Cabo Blanco Biological

Reserve, on the west coast of Costa Rica. It was a beautiful morning in July, and the road before him was

spectacular: hugging the edge of a cliff, overlooking the jungle and the blue Pacific. According to the

guidebooks, Cabo Blanco was unspoiled wilderness, almost a paradise. Seeing it now made Bowman feel

as if the vacation was back on track.

Bowman, a thirty-six-year-old real estate developer from Dallas, had come to Costa Rica with his wife

and daughter for a two-week holiday. The trip had actually been his wife's idea; for weeks Ellen had filled

his ear about the wonderful national parks of Costa Rica, and how good it would be for Tina to see them.

Then, when they arrived, it turned out Ellen had an appointment to see a plastic surgeon in San Jos‚. That

was the first Mike Bowman had heard about the excellent and inexpensive plastic surgery available in

Costa Rica, and all the luxurious private clinics in San Jos‚.

Of course they'd had a huge fight, Mike felt she'd lied to him, and she had. And he put his foot down

about this plastic surgery business. Anyway, it was ridiculous, Ellen was only thirty, and she was a

beautiful woman. Hell, she'd been Homecoming Queen her senior year at Rice, and that was not even ten

years earlier. But Ellen tended to be insecure, and worried. And it seemed as if in recent years she had

mostly worried about losing her looks.

That, and everything else.

The Land Rover bounced in a pothole, splashing mud. Seated beside him, Ellen said, "Mike, are you

sure this is the right road? We haven't seen any other people for hours."

"There was another car fifteen minutes ago," he reminded her. "Remember, the blue one?"

"Going the other way . . ."

"Darling, you wanted a deserted beach," he said, "and that's what you're going to get."

Ellen shook her head doubtfully. "I hope you're right."

"Yeah, Dad, I hope you're right," said Christina, from the back seat. She was eight years old.

"Trust me, I'm right." He drove in silence a moment. "It's beautiful, isn't it? Look at that view. It's

beautiful."

"It's okay," Tina said.

Ellen got out a compact and looked at herself in the mirror, pressing under her eyes. She sighed, and put

the compact away.

The road began to descend, and Mike Bowman concentrated on driving. Suddenly a small black shape

flashed across the road and Tina shrieked, "Look! Look!" Then it was gone, into the jungle.

"What was it?" Ellen asked. "A monkey7"

"Maybe a squirrel monkey," Bowman said.

"Can I count it?" Tina said, taking her pencil out, She was keeping a list of all the animals she had seen

on her trip, as a project for school.

"I don't know," Mike said doubtfully.

Tina consulted the pictures in the guidebook. "I don't think it was a squirrel monkey," she said. "I think

it was just another howler." They had seen several howler monkeys already on their trip,

"Hey," she said, more brightly. "According to this book, 'the beaches of Cabo Blanco are frequented by a

variety of wildlife, including howler and white-faced monkeys, three-toed sloths, and coatimundis.' You

think we'll see a three-toed sloth, Dad?"

"I bet we do."

"Really?"

"Just look in the mirror."

"Very funny, Dad."

The road sloped downward through the jungle, toward the ocean.

Mike Bowman felt like a hero when they finally reached the beach: a two-mile crescent of white sand,

utterly deserted. He parked the Land Rover in the shade of the palm trees that fringed the beach, and got

out the box lunches. Ellen changed into her bathing suit, saying, "Honestly, I don't know how I'm going to

get this weight off."

"You look great, hon." Actually, he felt that she was too thin, but he had learned not to mention that.

Tina was already running down the beach.

"Don't forget you need your sunscreen," Ellen called.

"Later," Tina shouted, over her shoulder. "I'm going to see if there's a sloth.

Ellen Bowman looked around at the beach, and the trees. "You think she's all right?"

"Honey, there's nobody here for miles," Mike said.

"What about snakes?"

"Oh, for God's sake," Mike Bowman said. "There's no snakes on a beach."

"Well, there might be. . . ."

"Honey," he said firmly. "Snakes are cold-blooded. They're reptiles. They can't control their body

temperature. It's ninety degrees on that sand. If a snake came out, it'd be cooked. Believe me. There's no

snakes on the beach." He watched his daughter scampering down the beach, a dark spot on the white sand.

"Let her go. Let her have a good time."

He put his arm around his wife's waist.

Tina ran until she was exhausted, and then she threw herself down on the sand and gleefully rolled to the

water's edge. The ocean was warm, and there was hardly any surf at all. She sat for a while, catching her

breath, and then she looked back toward her parents and the car, to see how far she had come.

Her mother waved, beckoning her to return. Tina waved back cheerfully, pretending she didn't

understand. Tina didn't want to put sunscreen on. And she didn't want to go back and hear her mother talk

about losing weight. She wanted to stay right here, and maybe see a sloth.

Tina had seen a sloth two days earlier at the zoo in San Jos‚. It looked like a Muppets character, and it

seemed harmless. In any case, it couldn't move fast; she could easily outrun it.

Now her mother was calling to her, and Tina decided to move out of the sun, back from the water, to the

shade of the palm trees. In this part of the beach, the palm trees overhung a gnarled tangle of mangrove

roots, which blocked any attempt to penetrate inland. Tina sat in the sand and kicked the dried mangrove

leaves. She noticed many bird tracks in the sand. Costa Rica was famous for its birds. The guidebooks said

there were three times as many birds in Costa Rica as in all of America and Canada.

In the sand, some of the three-toed bird tracks were small, and so faint they could hardly be seen. Other

tracks were large, and cut deeper in the sand. Tina was looking idly at the tracks when she heard a

chirping, followed by a rustling in the mangrove thicket.

Did sloths make a chirping sound? Tina didn't think so, but she wasn't sure. The chirping was probably

some ocean bird. She waited quietly, not moving, hearing the rustling again, and finally she saw the source

of the sounds, A few yards away, a lizard emerged from the mangrove roots and peered at her.

Tina held her breath. A new animal for her list! The lizard stood up on its hind legs, balancing on its

thick tail, and stared at her. Standing like that, it was almost a foot tall, dark green with brown stripes along

its back. Its tiny front legs ended in little lizard fingers that wiggled in the air. The lizard cocked its head as

it looked at her.

Tina thought it was cute. Sort of like a big salamander. She raised her hand and wiggled her fingers

back.

The lizard wasn't frightened. It came toward her, walking upright on its hind legs. It was hardly bigger

than a chicken, and like a chicken it bobbed its head as it walked. Tina thought it would make a wonderful

pet.

She noticed that the lizard left three-toed tracks that looked exactly like bird tracks. The lizard came

closer to Tina. She kept her body still, not wanting to frighten the little animal. She was amazed that it

would come so close, but she remembered that this was a national park. All the animals in the park would

know that they were protected. This lizard was probably tame. Maybe it even expected her to give it some

food. Unfortunately she didn't have any. Slowly, Tina extended her hand, palm open, to show she didn't

have any food.

The lizard paused, cocked his head, and chirped.

"Sorry," Tina said. "I just don't have anything."

And then, without warning, the lizard jumped up onto her outstretched hand. Tina could feel its little

toes pinching the skin of her palm, and she felt the surprising weight of the animal's body pressing her arm

down.

And then the lizard scrambled up her arm, toward her face.

"I just wish I could see her," Ellen Bowman said, squinting in the sunlight. "That's all. Just see her."

"I'm sure she's fine," Mike said, picking through the box lunch packed by the hotel. There was

unappetizing grilled chicken, and some kind of a meat-filled pastry. Not that Ellen would cat any of it.

"You don't think she'd leave the beach?" Ellen said.

"No, hon, I don't."

"I feel so isolated here," Ellen said.

"I thought that's what you wanted," Mike Bowman said.

"I did."

"Well, then, what's the problem?"

"I just wish I could see her, is all," Ellen said.

Then, from down the beach, carried by the wind, they heard their daughter's voice. She was screaming.

Puntarenas

"I think she is quite comfortable now," Dr. Cruz said, lowering the plastic flap of the oxygen tent around

Tina as she slept. Mike Bowman sat beside the bed, close to his daughter. Mike thought Dr. Cruz was

probably pretty capable; he spoke excellent English, the result of training at medical centers In London and

Baltimore. Dr. Cruz radiated competence, and the Cl¡nica Santa Mar¡a, the modern hospital in Puntarenas,

was spotless and efficient.

But, even so, Mike Bowman felt nervous. There was no getting around the fact that his only daughter

was desperately ill, and they were far from home.

When Mike had first reached Tina, she was screaming hysterically. Her whole left arm was bloody,

covered with a profusion of small bites, each the size of a thumbprint. And there were flecks of sticky foam

on her arm, like a foamy saliva.

He carried her back down the beach. Almost immediately her arm began to redden and swell. Mike

would not soon forget the frantic drive back to civilization, the four-wheel-drive Land Rover slipping and

sliding up the muddy track into the hills, while his daughter screamed in fear and pain, and her arm grew

more bloated and red. Long before they reached the park boundaries, the swelling had spread to her neck,

and then Tina began to have trouble breathing. . . .

"She'll be all right now?" Ellen said, staring through the plastic oxygen tent.

"I believe so," Dr. Cruz said. "I have given her another dose of steroids, and her breathing is much

easier. And you can see the edema in her arm is greatly reduced."

Mike Bowman said, "About those bites. . ."

"We have no identification yet," the doctor said. "I myself haven't seen bites like that before. But you'll

notice they are disappearing. It's already quite difficult to make them out. Fortunately I have taken

photographs for reference. And I have washed her arm to collect some samples of the sticky saliva-one for

analysis here, a second to send to the labs in San Jos‚, and the third we will keep frozen in case it is

needed. Do you have the picture she made?"

"Yes," Mike Bowman said. He handed the doctor the sketch that Tina had drawn, in response to

questions from the admitting officials.

"This is the animal that bit her?" Dr. Cruz said, looking at the picture.

"Yes," Mike Bowman said. "She said it was a green lizard, the size of a chicken or a crow."

"I don't know of such a lizard," the doctor said. "She has drawn it standing on its hind legs. . . ."

"That's right," Mike Bowman said. "She said it walked on its hind legs."

Dr. Cruz frowned. He stared at the picture a while longer. "I am not an expert. I've asked for Dr.

Guitierrez to visit us here. He is a senior researcher at the Reserva Biol¢gica de Carara, which is across the

bay. Perhaps he can identify the animal for us."

"Isn't there someone from Cabo Blanco?" Bowman asked. "That's where she was bitten."

"Unfortunately not," Dr. Cruz said. "Cabo Blanco has no permanent staff, and no researcher has worked

there for some time. You were probably the first people to walk on that beach in several months. But I am

sure you will find Dr. Guitierrez to be knowledgeable."

Dr. Guitierrez turned out to be a bearded man wearing khaki shorts and shirt. The surprise was that he

was American. He was introduced to the Bowmans, saying in a soft Southern accent, "Mr. and Mrs.

Bowman, how you doing, nice to meet you," and then explaining that he was a field biologist from Yale

who had worked in Costa Rica for the last five years. Marty Guitierrez examined Tina thoroughly, lifting

her arm gently, peering closely at each of the bites with a penlight, then measuring them with a small

pocket ruler. After a while, Guitierrez stepped away, nodding to himself as if he had understood something.

He then inspected the Polaroids, and asked several questions about the saliva, which Cruz told him was

still being tested in the lab.

Finally he turned to Mike Bowman and his wife, waiting tensely. "I think Tina's going to be fine. I just

want to be clear about a few details," he said, making notes in a precise band. "Your daughter says she was

bitten by a green lizard, approximately one foot high, which walked upright onto the beach from the

mangrove swamp?"

"That's right, yes."

"And the lizard made some kind of a vocalization?"

"Tina said it chirped, or squeaked."

"Like a mouse, would you say?"

"Yes."

"Well, then," Dr. Guitierrez said, "I know this lizard." He explained that, of the six thousand species of

lizards in the world, no more than a dozen species walked upright. Of those species, only four were found

in Latin America. And judging by the coloration, the lizard could be only one of the four. "I am sure this

lizard was a Basiliscus amoratus, a striped basilisk lizard, found here in Costa Rica and also in Honduras.

Standing on their hind legs, they are sometimes as tall as a foot."

"Are they poisonous?"

"No, Mrs. Bowman. Not at all." Guitierrez explained that the swelling in Tina's arm was an allergic

reaction. "According to the literature, fourteen percent of people are strongly allergic to reptiles," he said,

"and your daughter seems to be one of them."

"She was screaming, she said it was so painful."

"Probably it was," Guitierrez said. "Reptile saliva contains serotonin, which causes tremendous pain."

He turned to Cruz. "Her blood pressure came down with antihistamines?"

"Yes," Cruz said. "Promptly."

"Serotonin," Guitierrez said. "No question."

Still, Ellen Bowman remained uneasy. "But why would a lizard bite her in the first place?"

"Lizard bites are very common," Guitierrez said. "Animal handlers in zoos get bitten all the time. And

just the other day I heard that a lizard had bitten an infant in her Crib in Amaloya, about sixty miles from

where you were. So bites do occur. I'm not sure why your daughter had so many bites. What was she doing

at the time?"

"Nothing. She said she was sitting pretty still, because she didn't want to frighten it away."

"Sitting pretty still," Guitierrez said, frowning. He shook his head. "Well. I don't think we can say

exactly what happened. Wild animals are unpredictable."

Michael Crichton - Jurassic Park

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