WHEN IT RAINS

When it rains in the badlands, it pours. That was one reason Alan Grant didn't like digging

in Montana. He had other reasons, too, but they were more personal. He was born in Montana, and the prospect of staying here for his entire career seemed unappealing. The badlands, however, were far different from the place where he'd grown up. No matter where you went in this state, it was always basically the same; gas station, restaurant, homes, twenty miles...except the badlands. It was like that old saying, 'one man's dirt is another man's treasure.' The badlands were Alan Grant's treasure. When he looked out into the barren horizon, seeing yellow soil and desolate plants (a landscape Leone would have died for), he saw a time long, long ago, when there weren't cacti. In fact, his research suggested that there had been a river, a huge river that might have rivaled the Mississippi, running right through the north badlands. If it had rained back then, thought Grant, the entire area would have flooded. But what with the theories of constant warming and what not, who knows if it even rained here then? Maybe that river had once been the Nile of Montana. He knew science would never know.

Well, at least, not in his lifetime. It took forever for things to happen in science. It seemed like it wasn't happening in anyone's lifetime; Grant was thirty-eight, rugged and carefree, teaching paleontology at the University of Denver. Famous for giving lectures in jeans and sneakers, Grant's favorite classroom was the sun-beaten badlands of Montana. However, ever dedicated to his own research, from about 1985 on, he only took a handful graduate students and a few post docs. It was well known that you had to be good to get into a class taught by Alan Grant. He was the best.

Grant imagined that when it rained in the badlands in the Jurassic era, it would have been beautiful. He only wished he could have seen it. "Dr. Grant?" A voice broke him away from his vision.

"Dr. Graaannntt!" Grant spun on his heels, a brunette, barrel chested man of nearly forty. "Yes...Jamal!" he said, recognizing his student. "What's up?"

"Aw, Alan, it's that damn computer again!"

"I hate computers," Grant mumbled. He began walking with Jamal to the tepee where they kept all electronic devices. The computer was a new addition. Technically, all the equipment they kept in here was some kind of computer, but the bulky gray box in the corner was 'the computer'.

"What do I do with these samples if the comp's not working?"pleaded the graduate softly, looking up to his mentor with bright eyes.

"Well, there's some litmus paper in the back," Grant nodded, pointing in the other direction, "you could always do it the old fashioned way."

"Maannn, nobody's done that since James Taylor had hair!"

"Yeah, I know."

THE LEGENDARY ALAN GRANT

Ellie Sattler worked the late shift at Jodi's Interplanetary Restaurant from 8-10:00 pm. It was actually a homey little vegetarian restaurant outside of Hammond. It was run by a demented woman in her late fifties who went by the name Laura Michelle Phipher. Phipher was rude, and strange. But in a lot of ways, she was like a hard boiled grandma. Ellie actually enjoyed working here, though her inner motives were kept a distant secret from her colleagues. She really liked working here because Dr. Alan Grant came here every other Monday with his research group. She knew Alan was the tall one with the brown hair. A few times, he had come in here with a beard. Today was a Monday. Not only could she not remember if it was the right Monday, but it was raining. The group had skipped a couple of times due to rain. Oh, well, she thought as she heard an "Excuse me, miss" behind her. Back to work.

It wasn't one whole minute later when Grant slipped in the door without Ellie noticing. He sat at the table near where she was waiting. He enjoyed talking to her. Ellie was very smart. Ellie was a fairly tall, thin woman, with darkly tanned skin and long blond hair that she pulled into an unceremonious ponytail. She gave off an exuberance that came with being twenty two. Clad in jean shorts, a tee shirt, and sneakers, she could have been working for Grant.

Grant watched as Ellie went behind the swinging double doors that led to the kitchen. Grant came here every other Monday with his research group, composed of two other people besides himself; Drs. Hotran and Evans. Hotran was about fifty, white haired, and hot tempered; known for his crudeness to the graduate students. He appeared to hate them, but, then again, he would be seen joking with a few of them. Evans was a painfully thin man of forty five, balding and extremely precise, with a slight stutter and huge glasses.

The restaurant itself was fairly luxurious, but homey. Very clean, unlike most restaurants around the same area. On the wall opposite him was a giant plastic fish, though he'd never seen seafood served here.

A minute or so later, Ellie reappeared from behind the swinging doors carrying a tray. Her eyes lit up when she saw him, and she winced slightly from trying to wave with one hand. Grant smiled and returned the gesture. Ellie finished serving a middle aged couple and jogged over to Grant's table.

"Hi," she said, very friendly. "How goes it in the badlands?"

"Not good, actually. We've got a busted computer."

"Oh yeah? What kind?"

"The hell if I know." Grant grumbled.

"Well, what can I get you to drink?" Grant ordered a beer and some random vegetarian dish from the menu.

When Ellie brought him the check, she asked him a few odd questions about working in the badlands. She seemed very enthusiastic about the whole thing. Grant learned that she was an all but dissertation in paleobotany ,and she'd come all the way from New York looking for a place to do post-doc in the Badlands. That's the kind of person you could get to envy, Grant thought.

Alan Grant's rusty colored pickup truck pulled into the coordinated dirt that constituted as his driveway. Before he even opened the door to his small trailer home, he heard the phone ring from within. He hurried inside, and answered it. It was late to be getting a phone call.

"Alan Grant."

"Yes, Dr. Grant, I don't believe we've ever met. This is Donald Gennaro, Mr. Hammond's lawyer." The voice on the other line was clear and deep. An expert manipulator, Grant expected.

"I believe we've spoken before, Mr. Gennaro."

"Yes. I asked you to conduct a paper for Mr. Hammond-"

"I remember, Mr. Gennaro."

"Well, today was the day we suggested things be wrapping up, and I just wondered about how far along you were in this..."

"It's," Grant glanced at his watch, the hands hard to see in the dark light, "Ten-thirty one, Mr. Gennaro. I don't know anything."

Gennaro sounded disappointed and exasperated when he said finally, "Thank you for your time, Dr. Grant."

What the hell was so damn important about this paper anyway? This was the third odd paper he'd had to write since working under Mr. Hammond's funding. All of them on extremely specific topics, like skin development on infants, or urinary habits. As if anyone knew much about that.

Grant sighed, and reclined on his dusty couch. He hated working for the money men.