"It's almost finished now, you know," Hammond said. "I've sent you some material about it. Did you get my material?"
"No, but we're pretty far from-"
"Maybe it'll come today. Look it over. The island's just beautiful. It's got everything. We've been in construction now thirty months. You can imagine. Big park. Opens in September next year. You really ought to go see it.
"It sounds wonderful, but-"
"As a matter of fact," Hammond said, "I'm going to insist you see it, Dr. Grant. I know you'd find it right up your alley. You'd find it fascinating."
"I'm in the middle of-" Grant said.
"Say, I'll tell you what," Hammond said, as if the idea had just occurred to him. "I'm having some of the people who consulted for us go down there this weekend. Spend a few days and look it over. At our expense, of course. It'd be terrific if you'd give us your opinion."
"I couldn't possibly," Grant said.
"Oh, just for a weekend," Hammond said, with the irritating, cheery persistence of an old man. "That's all I'm talking about, Dr. Grant. I wouldn't want to interrupt your work. I know how important that work is. Believe me, I know that. Never interrupt your work. But you could hop on down there this weekend, and be back on Monday."
"No, I couldn't," Grant said. "I've just found a new skeleton and-"
"Yes, fine, but I still think you should come-" Hammond said, not really listening.
"And we've just received some evidence for a very puzzling and remarkable find, which seems to be a living procompsognathid."
"A what?" Hammond said, slowing down. "I didn't quite get that. You said a living procompsognathid?"
"That's right," Grant said. "It's a biological specimen, a partial fragment of an animal collected from Central America. A living animal."
"You don't say," Hammond said. "A living animal? How extraordinary."
"Yes," Grant said. "We think so, too. So, you see, this isn't the time for me to be leaving-"
"Central America, did you say?"
"Yes."
"Where in Central America is it from, do you know?"
"A beach called Cabo Blanco, I don't know exactly where-"
"I see." Hammond cleared his throat, "And when did this, ah, specimen arrive in your hands?"
"Just today."
"Today, I see. Today. I see. Yes." Hammond cleared his throat again.
Grant looked at Ellie and mouthed, What's going on?
Ellie shook her head. Sounds upset.
Grant mouthed, See if Morris is still here.
She went to the window and looked out, but Morris's car was gone. She turned back.
On the speaker, Hammond coughed. "Ah, Dr. Grant. Have you told anybody about it yet?"
"No."
"Good, that's good. Well. Yes. I'll tell you frankly, Dr. Grant, I'm having a little problem about this island. This EPA thing is coming at just the wrong time."
"How's that?" Grant said.
"Well, we've had our problems and some delays. . . . Let's just say that I'm under a little pressure here, and I'd like you to look at this island for me. Give me your opinion. I'll be paying you the usual weekend consultant rate of twenty thousand a day. That'd be sixty thousand for three days. And if you can spare Dr. Sattler, she'll go at the same rate. We need a botanist. What do you say?"
Ellie looked at Grant as he said, "Well, Mr. Hammond, that much money would fully finance our expeditions for the next two summers."
"Good, good," Hammond said blandly. He seemed distracted now, his thoughts elsewhere. "I want this to be easy. . . . Now, I'm sending the corporate jet to pick you up at that private airfield cast of Choteau. You know the one I mean? It's only about two hours' drive from where you are. You be there at five p.m. tomorrow and I'll be waiting for you. Take you right down. Can you and Dr. Sattler make that plane?"
"I guess we can."
"Good. Pack lightly. You don't need passports. I'm looking forward to it. See you tomorrow," Hammond said, and he hung up.
Cowan, Swain and Ross
Midday sun streamed into the San Francisco law offices of Cowan, Swain and Ross, giving the room a cheerfulness that Donald Gennaro did not feel. He listened on the phone and looked at his boss, Daniel Ross, cold as an undertaker in his dark pinstripe suit.
"I understand, John," Gennaro said. "And Grant agreed to come? Good, good . . . yes, that sounds fine to me. My congratulations, John." He hung up the phone and turned to Ross.
"We can't trust Hammond any more. He's under too much pressure. The EPA's investigating him, he's behind schedule on his Costa Rican resort, and the investors are getting nervous. There have been too many rumors of problems down there. Too many workmen have died. And now this business about a living procompsit-whatever on the mainland . . . "
"What does that mean?" Ross said.
"Maybe nothing," Gennaro said. "But Hamachi is one of our principal investors. I got a report last week from Hamachi's representative in San Jose, the capital of Costa Rica. According to the report, some new kind of lizard is biting children on the coast."
Ross blinked. "New lizard?"
"Yes," Gennaro said. "We can't screw around with this. We've got to inspect that island right away. I've asked Hammond to arrange independent site inspections every week for the next three weeks."
"And what does Hammond say?"
"He insists nothing is wrong on the island. Claims he has all these security precautions."
"But you don't believe him," Ross said.
"No," Gennaro said. "I don't."
Donald Gennaro had come to Cowan, Swain from a background in investment banking. Cowan, Swain's high-tech clients frequently needed capitalization, and Gennaro helped them find the money. One of his first assignments, back in 1982, had been to accompany John Hammond while the old man, then nearly seventy, put together the funding to start the InGen corporation. They eventually raised almost a billion dollars, and Gcnnaro remembered it as a wild ride.
"Hammond's a dreamer," Gennaro said.
"A potentially dangerous dreamer," Ross said. "We should never have gotten involved. What is our financial position?"
"The firm," Gennaro said, "owns five percent."
"General or limited?"
"General."
Ross shook his head. "We should never have done that."
"It seemed wise at the time," Gennaro said. "Hell, it was eight years ago. We took it in lieu of some fees. And, if you remember, Hammond's plan was extremely speculative. He was really pushing the envelope. Nobody really thought he could pull it off."
"But apparently he has," Ross said. "In any case, I agree that an inspection is overdue. What about your site experts?"
"I'm starting with experts Hammond already hired as consultants, early in the project." Gennaro tossed a list onto Ross's desk. "First group is a paleontologist, a paleobotanist, and a mathematician. They go down this weekend. I'll go with them."
"Will they tell you the truth?" Ross said.
"I think so. None of them had much to do with the island, and one of them-the mathematician, Ian Malcolm-was openly hostile to the project from the start. Insisted it would never work, could never work."
"And who else?"
"Just a technical person: the computer system analyst. Review the park's computers and fix some bugs. He should be there by Friday morning."
Fine," Ross said. "You're making the arrangements?"
"Hammond asked to place the calls himself. I think he wants to pretend that he's not in trouble, that it's just a social invitation. Showing off his island."
"All right," Ross said. "But just make sure it happens. Stay on top of it. I want this Costa Rican situation resolved within a week." Ross got up, and walked out of the room.
Gennaro dialed, heard the whining hiss of a radiophone. Then he heard a voice say, "Grant here."
"Hi, Dr. Grant, this is Donald Gennaro. I'm the general counsel for InGen. We talked a few years back, I don't know if you remember-"
"I remember," Grant said.
"Well," Gennaro said. "I just got off the phone with John Hammond, who tells me the good news that you're coming down to our island in Costa Rica. . . ."
"Yes," Grant said. "I guess we're going down there tomorrow."
"Well, I just want to extend my thanks to you for doing this on short notice. Everybody at InGen appreciates it. We've asked fan Malcolm, who like you was one of the early consultants, to come down as well. He's the mathematician at UT in Austin?"
"John Hammond mentioned that," Grant said.
"Well, good," Gennaro said. "And I'll be coming, too, as a matter of fact. By the way, this specimen you have found of a pro . . . procom . . . what is it?"
"Procompsognathus," Grant said.
"Yes. Do you have the specimen with you, Dr. Grant? The actual specimen?"
"No," Grant said. "I've only seen an X-ray. The specimen is in New York. A woman from Columbia University called me."
"Well, I wonder if you could give me the details on that," Gennaro said. "Then I can run down that specimen for Mr. Hammond, who's very excited about it. I'm sure you want to see the actual specimens too. Perhaps I can even get it delivered to the island while you're all down there," Gennaro said.
Grant gave him the information. "Well, that's fine, Dr. Grant," Gennaro said. "My regards to Dr. Sattler. I look forward to meeting you and him tomorrow." And Gennaro hung up.
Plans
"This just came," Ellie said the next day, walking to the back of the trailer with a thick manila envelope. "One of the kids brought it back from town. It's from Hammond."
Grant noticed the blue-and-white InGen logo as he tore open the envelope. Inside there was no cover letter, just a bound stack of paper. Pulling it out, he discovered it was blueprints. They were reduced, forming a thick book. The cover was marked: ISLA NUBLAR RESORT GUEST FACILITIES (FULL SET: SAFARI LODGE).
"What the hell is this?" he said.
As he flipped open the book, a sheet of paper fell out.
Dear Alan and Ellie:
As you can imagine we don't have much in the way of formal promotional materials yet. But this should give you some idea of the Isla Nublar project. I think it's Very exciting!
Looking forward to discussing this with you! Hope you can join us!
Regards,
John
"I don't get it," Grant said. He flipped through the sheets. "These are architectural plans." He turned to the top sheet:
VISITOR CENTER/LODGE ISLA NUBLAR RESORT
CLIENT InGen Inc., Palo Alto, Calif.
ARCHITECTS Dunning, Murphy & Associates, New
York. Richard Murphy, design partner;
Theodore Chen, senior designer;
Sheldon James, administrative partner.
ENGINEERS Harlow, Whitney & Fields, Boston,
structural; A.T.Misikawa, Osaka,
mechanical.
LANDSCAPING Shepperton Rogers, London;
A.Ashikiga, H. Ieyasu, Kanazawa.
ELECTRICAL N. V. Kobayashi, Tokyo. A. R
Makasawa, senior consultant.
COMPUTER C/C Integrated Computer Systems, Inc.,
Cambridge, Mass. Dennis Nedry,
project supervisor.
Grant turned to the plans themselves. They were stamped INDUSTRIAL SECRETS DO NOT COPY and CONFIDENTIAL WORK PRODUCT-NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION. Each sheet was numbered, and at the top: "These plans represent the confidential creations of InGen Inc. You must have signed document 112/4A or you risk prosecution."
"Looks pretty paranoid to me," he said.
"Maybe there's a reason," Ellie said.
The next page was a topographical map. It showed Isla Nublar as an inverted teardrop, bulging at the north, tapering at the south. The island was eight miles long, and the map divided it into several large sections.
The northern section was marked VISITOR AREA and it contained structures marked "Visitor Arrivals," "Visitor Center/Administration," " Power/Desalinization/Support," "Hammond Res.," and "Safari Lodge." Grant could see the outline of a swimming pool, the rectangles of tennis courts, and the round squiggles that represented planting and shrubbery.
"Looks like a resort, all right," Ellie said.
There followed detail sheets for the Safari Lodge itself. In the elevation sketches, the lodge looked dramatic: a long low building with a series of pyramid shapes on the roof. But there was little about the other buildings in the visitor area.
And the rest of the island was even more mysterious. As far as Grant could tell, it was mostly open space. A network of roads, tunnels, and outlying buildings, and a long thin lake that appeared to be man-made, with concrete dams and barriers. But, for the most part, the island was divided into big curving areas with very little development at all. Each area was marked by codes:
/P/PROC/V/2A, /D/TRIC/L/5(4A+I), /LN/OTHN/C/4(3A+]), and /VV/ HADR/X/ 11(6A + 3 + 3DB).
"Is there an explanation for the codes?" she said.
Grant flipped the pages rapidly, but he couldn't find one.
"Maybe they took it out," she said.
"I'm telling you," Grant said. "Paranoid." He looked at the big curving divisions, separated from one another by the network of roads. There were only six divisions on the whole island. And each division was separated from the road by a concrete moat. Outside each moat was a fence with a little lightning sign alongside it. That mystified them until they were finally able to figure out It meant the fences were electrified.
"That's odd," she said. "Electrified fences at a resort?"
"Miles of them," Grant said. "Electrified fences and moats, together. And usually with a road alongside them as well."
"Just like a zoo," Ellie said.
They went back to the topographical map and looked closely at the contour lines. The roads had been placed oddly. The main road ran north-soutb, right through the central hills of the island, including one section of road that seemed to be literally cut into the side of a cliff, above a river. It began to look as if there had been a deliberate effort to leave these open areas as big enclosures, separated from the roads by moats and electric fences. And the roads were raised up above ground level, so you could see over the fences. . . .
"You know," Ellie said, "some of these dimensions are enormous. Look at this. This concrete moat is thirty feet wide. That's like a military fortification."
"So are these buildings," Grant said. He had noticed that each open division had a few buildings, usually located in out-of-the-way corners. But the buildings were all concrete, with thick walls. In side-view elevations they looked like concrete bunkers with small windows. Like the Nazi pillboxes from old war movies.
At that moment, they heard a muffled explosion, and Grant put the papers aside. "Back to work," he said.
"Fire!"
There was a slight vibration, and then yellow contour lines traced across the computer screen. This time the resolution was perfect, and Alan Grant had a glimpse of the skeleton, beautifully defined, the long neck arched back. It was unquestionably an infant velociraptor, and it looked in perfect-
The screen went blank.
"I hate computers," Grant said, squinting in the sun. "What happened now?"
"Lost the integrator input," one of the kids said. "Just a minute." The kid bent to look at the tangle of wires going into the back of the battery-powered portable computer. They had set the computer up on a beer carton on top of Hill Four, not far from the device they called Thumper.
Grant sat down on the side of the hill and looked at his watch. He said to Ellie, "We're going to have to do this the old-fashioned way."
One of the kids overheard. "Aw, Alan."
"Look," Grant said, "I've got a plane to catch. And I want the fossil protected before I go."
Once you began to expose a fossil, you had to continue, or risk losing it. Visitors imagined the landscape of the badlands to be unchanging, but in fact it was continuously eroding, literally right before your eyes; all day long you could hear the clatter of pebbles rolling down the crumbling hillside. And there was always the risk of a rainstorm; even a brief shower would wash away a delicate fossil. Thus Grant's partially exposed skeleton was at risk, and it had to be protected until he returned.
Fossil protection ordinarily consisted of a tarp over the site, and a trench around the perimeter to control water runoff. The question was how large a trench the velociraptor fossil required. To decide that, they were using computer-assisted sonic tomography, or CAST. This was a new procedure, in which Thumper fired a soft lead slug into the ground, setting up shock waves that were read by the computer and assembled into a kind of X-ray image of the hillside. They had been using it all summer with varying results.
Thumper was twenty feet away now, a big silver box on wheels, with an umbrella on top. It looked like an ice-cream vendor's pushcart, parked incongruously on the badlands. Thumper had two youthful attendants loading the next soft lead pellet.
So far, the CAST program merely located the extent of finds, helping Grant's team to dig more efficiently. But the kids claimed that within a few years it would be possible to generate an image so detailed that excavation would he redundant. You could get a perfect image of the bones, in three dimensions, and it promised a whole new era of archaeology without excavation.
But none of that had happened yet. And the equipment that worked flawlessly in the university laboratory proved pitifully delicate and fickle in the field.
"How much longer?" Grant said.
"We got it now, Alan. It's not bad."
Grant went to look at the computer screen. He saw the complete skeleton, traced in bright yellow. It was indeed a young specimen. The outstanding characteristic of Velociraptor-the single-toed claw, which in a full-grown animal was a curved, six-inch-long weapon capable of ripping open its prey-was in this infant no larger than the thorn on a rosebush. It was hardly visible at all on the screen. And Velociraptor was a lightly built dinosaur in any case, an animal as fine-boned as a bird, and presumably as intelligent.
Here the skeleton appeared in perfect order, except that the head and neck were bent back, toward the posterior. Such neck flexion was so common in fossils that some scientists had formulated a theory to explain it, suggesting that the dinosaurs had become extinct because they had been poisoned by the evolving alkaloids in plants. The twisted neck was thought to signify the death agony of the dinosaurs. Grant had finally put that one to rest, by demonstrating that many species of birds and reptiles underwent a postmortem contraction of posterior neck ligaments, which bent the head backward in a characteristic way. It had nothing to do with the cause of death; it had to do with the way a carcass dried in the sun.
Grant saw that this particular skeleton had also been twisted laterally, so that the right leg and foot were raised up above the backbone.
"It looks kind of distorted," one of the kids said. "But I don't think it's the computer."
"No," Grant said. "It's just time. Lots and lots of time."
Grant knew that people could not imagine geological time. Human life was lived on another scale of time entirely. An apple turned brown in a few minutes. Silverware turned black in a few days. A compost heap decayed in a season. A child grew up in a decade. None of these everyday human experiences prepared people to be able to imagine the meaning of eighty million years - the length of time that had passed since this little animal had died.
In the classroom, Grant had tried different comparisons. If you imagined the human lifespan of sixty years was compressed to an hour, then eighty million years would still be 3,652 years-older than the pyramids. The velociraptor had been dead a long time.
"Doesn't look very fearsome," one of the kids said.
"He wasn't," Grant said. "At least, not until he grew up." Probably this baby had scavenged, feeding off carcasses slain by the adults, after the big animals had gorged themselves, and lay basking in the sun. Carnivores could eat as much as 25 percent of their body weight in a single meal, and it made them sleepy afterward. The babies would chitter and scramble over the indulgent, somnolent bodies of the adults, and nip little bites from the dead animal. The babies were probably cute little animals.
But an adult velociraptor was another matter entirely. Pound for pound, a velociraptor was the most rapacious dinosaur that ever lived. Although relatively small-about two hundred pounds, the size of a leopard-velociraptors were quick, intelligent, and vicious, able to attack with sharp jaws, powerful clawed forearms, and the devastating single claw on the foot.
Velociraptors hunted in packs, and Grant thought it must have been a sight to see a dozen of these animals racing at full speed, leaping onto the back of a much larger dinosaur, tearing at the neck and slashing at the ribs and belly. . . .
"We're running out of time," Ellie said, bringing him back.
Grant gave instructions for the trench. From the computer image, they knew the skeleton lay in a relatively confined area; a ditch around a two-meter square would be sufficient. Meanwhile, Ellie lashed down the tarp that covered the side of the hill. Grant helped her pound in the final stakes.
"How did the baby die?" one of the kids asked.
"I doubt we'll know," Grant replied. "Infant mortality in the wild is high. In African parks, it runs seventy percent among some carnivores. It could have been anything - disease, separation from the group, anything. Or even attack by an adult. We know these animals hunted in packs, but we don't know anything about their social behavior in a group."
The students nodded. They had all studied animal behavior, and they knew, for example, that when a new male took over a lion pride, the first thing he did was kill all the cubs. The reason was apparently genetic: the male had evolved to disseminate his genes as widely as possible, and by killing the cubs he brought all the females into heat, so that he could impregnate them. It also prevented the females from wasting their time nurturing the offspring of another male.
Perhaps the velociraptor hunting pack was also ruled by a dominant male. They knew so little about dinosaurs, Grant thought. After 150 years of research and excavation all around the world, they still knew almost nothing about what the dinosaurs had really been like.
"We've got to go," Ellie said, "if we're going to get to Choteau by five."
Hammond
Gennaro's secretary bustled in with a new suitcase. It still had the sales tags on it. "You know, Mr. Gennaro," she said severely, "when you forget to pack it makes me think you don't really want to go on this trip."
"Maybe you're right," Gennaro said. "I'm missing my kid's birthday." Saturday was Amanda's birthday, and Elizabeth had invited twenty screaming four-year-olds to share it, as well as Cappy the Clown and a magician. His wife hadn't been happy to hear that Gennaro was going out of town. Neither was Amanda.
"Well, I did the best I could on short notice," his secretary said. "There's running shoes your size, and khaki shorts and shirts, and a shaving kit. A pair of jeans and a sweatshirt if it gets cold. The car is downstairs to take you to the airport. You have to leave now to make the flight."
She left. Gennaro walked down the hallway, tearing the sales tags off the suitcase. As he passed the all-glass conference room, Dan Ross left the table and came outside.
"Have a good trip," Ross said. "But let's be very clear about one thing. I don't know how bad this situation actually is, Donald. But if there's a problem on that island, burn it to the ground."
"Jesus, Dan . . . We're talking about a big investment."
"Don't hesitate. Don't think about it. Just do it. Hear me?"
Gennaro nodded. "I hear you," he said. "But Hammond- "
"Screw Hammond," Ross said.
"My boy, my boy," the familiar raspy voice said. "How have you been, my boy?"
"Very well, sir," Gennaro replied. He leaned back in the padded leather chair of the Gulfstream II jet as it flew east, toward the Rocky Mountains.
"You never call me any more," Hammond said reproachfully. "I've missed you, Donald. How is your lovely wife?"
"She's fine. Elizabeth's fine. We have a little girl now."
"Wonderful, wonderful. Children are such a delight. She'd get a kick out of our new park in Costa Rica."
Gennaro had forgotten how short Hammond was; as he sat in the chair, his feet didn't touch the carpeting-he swung his legs as he talked. There was a childlike quality to the man, even though Hammond must now be . . . what? Seventy-five? Seventy-six? Something like that. He looked older than Gennaro remembered, but then, Gennaro hadn't seen him for almost five years.
Hammond was flamboyant, a born showman, and back in 1983 he had had an elephant that he carried around with him in a little cage. The elephant was nine inches high and a foot long, and perfectly formed, except his tusks were stunted. Hammond took the elephant with him to fund-raising meetings. Gennaro usually carried it into the room, the cage covered with a little blanket, like a tea cozy, and Hammond would give his usual speech about the prospects for developing what he called "consumer biologicals." Then, at the dramatic moment, Hammond would whip away the blanket to reveal the elephant. And he would ask for money.
The elephant was always a rousing success; its tiny body, hardly bigger than a cat's, promised untold wonders to come from the laboratory of Norman Atherton, the Stanford geneticist who was Hammond's partner in the new venture.
But as Hammond talked about the elephant, he left a great deal unsaid. For example, Hammond was starting a genetics company, but the tiny elephant hadn't been made by any genetic procedure; Atherton had simply taken a dwarf-elephant embryo and raised it in an artificial womb with hormonal modifications. That in itself was quite an achievement, but nothing like what Hammond hinted had been done.
Also, Atherton hadn't been able to duplicate his miniature elephant, and he'd tried. For one thing, everybody who saw the elephant wanted one. Then, too, the elephant was prone to colds, particularly during winter. The sneezes coming through the little trunk filled Hammond with dread. And sometimes the elephant would get his tusks stuck between the bars of the cage and snort irritably as he tried to get free; sometimes he got infections around the tusk line. Hammond always fretted that his elephant would die before Atherton could grow a replacement.
Hammond also concealed from prospective investors the fact that the elephant's behavior had changed substantially in the process of miniaturization. The little creature might look like an elephant, but he acted like a vicious rodent, quick-moving and mean-tempered. Hammond discouraged people from petting the elephant, to avoid nipped fingers.
And although Hammond spoke confidently of seven billion dollars in annual revenues by 1993, his project was intensely speculative. Hammond had vision and enthusiasm, but there was no certainty that his plan would work at all. Particularly since Norman Atherton, the brains behind the project, bad terminal cancer-which was a final point Hammond neglected to mention.
Even so, with Gennaro's help, Hammond got his money. Between September of 1983 and November of 1985, John Alfred Hammond and his "Pachyderm Portfolio" raised $870 million in venture capital to finance his proposed corporation, International Genetic Technologies, Inc. And they could have raised more, except Hammond insisted on absolute secrecy, and he offered no return on capital for at least five years. That scared a lot of investors off. In the end, they'd had to take mostly Japanese consortia. The Japanese were the only investors who had the patience.
Sitting in the leather chair of the jet, Gennaro thought about how evasive Hammond was. The old man was now ignoring the fact that Gennaro's law firm had forced this trip on him. Instead, Hammond behaved as if they were engaged in a purely social outing. "It's too bad you didn't bring your family with you, Donald," he said .
Gennaro shrugged. "It's my daughter's birthday. Twenty kids already scheduled. The cake and the clown. You know how it is."
"Oh, I understand," Hammond said. "Kids set their hearts on things."
"Anyway, is the park ready for visitors?" Gennaro asked.
"Well, not officially," Hammond said. "But the hotel is built, so there is a place to stay. . . ."
"And the animals?"
"Of course, the animals are all there. All in their spaces."
Gennaro said, "I remember in the original proposal you were hoping for a total of twelve. . . ."
"Ob, we're far beyond that. We have two hundred and thirty-eight an'mals, Donald."
Two hundred and thirty-eight?"
The old man giggled, pleased at Gennaro's reaction. "You can't imagine it. We have herds of them."
"Two hundred and thirty-eight . . . How many species?"
"Fifteen different species, Donald."
"That's incredible," Gennaro said. "That's fantastic. And what about all the other things you wanted? The facilities? The computers?"
"All of it, all of it," Hammond said. "Everything on that island is state-of-the-art. You'll see for yourself, Donald. It's perfectly wonderful. That's why this . . . concern . . . is so misplaced. There's absolutely no problem with the island."
Gennaro said, "Then there should be absolutely no problem with an inspection."
"And there isn't," Hammond said. "But it slows things down. Everything has to stop for the official visit. . . ."
"You've had delays anyway. You've postponed the opening."
"Oh, that " Hammond tugged at the red silk handkerchief in the breast pocket of his sportcoat. "It was bound to happen. Bound to happen."
"Why?" Gennaro asked.
