“Where is it?”
“The helicopter is not here.”
“I can see that. But where is it?”
Rodríguez spread his hands. “It has gone to San Cristóbal.”
“When will it be back?”
“I do not know. I think tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.”
“Señor Rodríguez,” she said firmly, “I must get to that island today.”
“I understand your wish,” Rodríguez said. “But I cannot do anything to help this.”
“What do you suggest?”
Rodríguez shrugged. “I could not make a suggestion.”
“Is there a boat that will take me?”
“I do not know of a boat.”
“This is a harbor,” Harding said. She pointed out the window. “I see all sorts of boats out there.”
“I know. But I do not believe one will go to the islands. The weather is not so favorable.”
“But if I were to go down to – ”
“Yes, of course.” Rodríguez sighed. “Of course you may ask.”
Which was how she found herself, shortly after eleven o’clock on a rainy morning, walking down the rickety wooden dock, with her backpack on her shoulder. Four boats were tied up to the dock, which smelled strongly of fish. But all the boats seemed to be deserted. All the activity was at the far end of the dock, where a much larger boat was tied up. Beside the boat, a red Jeep Wrangler was being strapped for loading, along with several large steel drums and wooden crates of supplies. She admired the car in passing; it had been specially modified, enlarged to the size of the Land Rover Defender, the most desirable of all field vehicles. Changing this Jeep must have been an expensive alteration, she thought: only for researchers with lots of money.
Standing on the dock, a pair of Americans in wide-brimmed sun hats were shouting and pointing as the Jeep lifted lopsidedly into the air, and was swung onto the deck of the boat with an ancient crane. She heard one of the men shout “Careful! Careful!” as the Jeep thudded down hard on the wooden deck. “Damn it, be careful!” Several workmen began to carry the boxes onto the ship. The crane swung back to pick up the steel drums.
Harding went over to the nearest man and said politely, “Excuse me, but I wonder if you could help me.”
The man glanced at her. He was medium height, with reddish skin and bland features; he looked awkward in new khaki safari clothes. His manner was preoccupied and tense. “I’m busy now,” he said, and turned away. “Manuel! Watch it, that’s sensitive equipment!”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she continued, “but my name is Sarah Harding, and I’m trying – ”
“I don’t care if you’re Sarah Bernhardt, the – Manuel! Damn it!” The man waved his arms. “You there! Yes, you! Hold that box upright!”
“I’m trying to get to Isla Sorna,” she said, finishing.
At this, the man’s entire demeanor changed. He turned back to her slowly. “Isla Sorna?” he said. “You’re not associated with Dr. Levine by any chance, are you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” be said, suddenly breaking into a warm smile. “What do you know!” He extended his hand. “I’m Lew Dodgson, from the Biosyn Corporation, back in Cupertino. This is my associate, Howard King.”
“Hi,” the other man said, nodding. Howard King was younger and taller than Dodgson, and he was handsome in a clean-cut California way. Sarah recognized his type: a classic beta male animal, subservient to the core. And there was something odd about his behavior toward her: he moved a little away, and seemed as uncomfortable around her as Dodgson now seemed friendly.
“And up there,” Dodgson continued, pointing onto the deck, “is our third, George Baselton.”
Harding saw a heavyset man on the deck, bent over the boxes as they came on board. His shirtsleeves were soaked in sweat. She said, “Are you all friends of Richard?”
“We’re on our way over to see him right now,” Dodgson said, “to help him out.” He hesitated, frowning at her. “But, uh, he didn’t tell us about you….”
She was suddenly aware then of how she must appear to him: a short woman in her thirties, wearing a rumpled shirt, khaki shorts, and heavy boots. Her clothes dirty, her hair unkempt after all the flights.