CHAPTER 2 – HELPING HAND

The first call came at 2pm on the 23rd of August, 1984. I remember it even now, because it marked the last time I had assured undisturbed sleep for well over a year and a half. Some junior assistant began rambling and stuttering, obviously under pressure. He could hear the scratchy voice of his supervisor in the background, his voice high pitched with rage. A company called InGen out of Palto Alto was having trouble with a museum display on the behavioural tendencies of Hadrosaur dinosaurs. Before I had a chance to approve, deny, anything at all, the kid began dutifully and mechanically reading off a number of subject fields. I didn't know who they thought they were, or more importantly, who had given them my number. But it was clear that they were having a lot of trouble. Not that I gave a shit at two o'clock in the morning. Any museum display could wait until morning. But the more I tried to explain, the more demanding the guy got. His voice conveyed hesitance, but at the same time arrogance and a self-assured quality, as if he didn't have to show me the courteous attitude that one does when calling a professional for support. The mental image my mind conjured up was of some mid-twenties new age nerd, the type who had three pens neatly lined up in the breast pocket of his shirt and his head up his ass.

It wasn't until he mentioned payment that I really started to listen to what he was saying, instead of wondering when it would be most tactful to put the phone down. The kid mentioned a healthy number that'd easily carry my research into the next summer. It was a rare opportunity, and I reluctantly agreed after another agonizing ten minutes. I regretted it afterwards, of course. Never before nor since have I been sought after so avidly. The calls came day and night, rain or shine. Sometimes they caught me after lectures, even in the supermarket. But after six months, and a lot of time spent in the office at the typewriter, shuffling through papers and research notes, I sent off my report, in full, titled 'Juvenile Hyperspace'.

Alan Grant, 1990

Alan Grant

March 17th, 1985

Badlands, Montana, United States

"That's the last of them, Dr. Grant," said the young volunteer, putting a large green box in the back of the flatbed truck with a clatter, dusting off his hands.

Alan Grant swung down from the cab, wiping his brow with his hand, and walking around to the back, grabbing a large rolled up blue tarp along the way. Unrolling it in his hands, he smiled to the volunteer, and threw the tarp over the top of the flatbed, and began tying it down. The young volunteer dashed around to the other side of the truck, assisting him. Grant was taking his weekly trip to the state university. This time he had also been stuck with the responsibility of taking in the repository of smaller bone specimens which had built up after two of the camp's vehicles had broken down.

"How long will you be?" the volunteer said brightly, the top of his head just visible above the vehicle, his hair waving gently in the wind.

Grant was something of a father figure in the camp, as many of the volunteers were kids who helped out over the summers. He loved kids; his love for teaching them had long made him a softer man than many of the other professors of Palaeontology.

"Not long James," he said back, his gravelly voice barely audible above a howl of wind which suddenly blasted past them. Normally people considered wind a gentle reprieve in hot environments, but here it was simply irksome. The sun attacked the ground with a ferocity which most people shied away from, and it was almost always over a hundred degrees. Far too hot for some. But not Grant; he liked it out here. Not for what it was now, but for what it had once been.

He finished tying it off, and jumped back into the cab, and started the engine with a rumble.

Sticking his hand out of the window, he waved goodbye as he stepped on the accelerator, kicking up a cloud of dust behind him. He roared out from underneath the covered canopy running alongside the expedition trailer, and rushed out down the road, through the camp. Volunteers in red shirts were hauling massive whitewashed structures across the ragged landscape, weaving in and out of a grouping of Sioux tepees which had been erected. The whitewashed shapes were in fact bones which had been covered in Plaster-of-Paris, to keep them safe whilst they were transported.

This year's turnout had been good; several large adult Hadrosaurs and an infant, which particularly interested Grant. It had contributed several helpful features to the report which lay on the passenger seat next to him. He accelerated out into the desert.

He passed through a door into the local diner in town. He loved it in here; great coffee. A record played soft music through the old rusted speakers, and his feet crunched on the spindles of the welcome mat beneath his feet. He took one look around at the dim interior, scanning the few occupied booths which lay beneath large, slowly spinning fans, until his eyes rested on a lone man. All that was visible was the back of his head and his shoulders, but he could see that he was dressed in an expensive suit, and his hair was cut short, neat.

Grant walked over to the booth, and slipped into the seat opposite him, and dropped the large stack of bound papers onto the desk with a slap. The man was in his early forties, and sported a receding hairline and rounded spectacles.

"Dr. Grant," the man said, extending his hand.

Grant shook his hand briefly, observing the man. In his business suit, and accompanying leather briefcase which lay on the table next to him, he looked distinctly out of place in the local diner next to Grant, who was dressed in his customary cowboy hat and khaki's.

"Nice suit," Grant said, grinning slyly.

"Yes well," said the man, taking off his glasses and wiping them with the rim of his sleeve, slowly, observing Grant, "I've heard your tradition is to break tradition." He popped his glasses back on and reached over, taking the bundle of papers, and flicked through it in one fluid motion, not really looking at the contents. Grant guessed that he was simply checking that the papers weren't blank. Considering the recent scuffle of dates and 'emergency' phone calls, it was a pretty poor confirmation check. But it didn't matter to him.

"What have we got here?" the man said, casting the papers aside. "Full content."

"Everything I have on the behavioural tendencies of juvenile dinosaurs, most notably the Hadrosaurs. You've got most of it on record already, because apparently it was urgently needed so much that you had to call me up during the night on several occasions. But I have some extra notes which I've included as well. A lot of it isn't much more than speculation, but I'm confident that it'll work great for your display."

"Display?" said the man absently, waving for the waitress, not paying attention.

"Yes," said Grant, frowning, "the museum display. Isn't that what this is for?"

"Oh," the man turned back, and smiled blandly, "of course."

The waitress came over, a pen and notepad in her hands. She was very attractive in her high heels and unbuttoned shirt. Grant ordered a mug of coffee, and the man did the same, clearing his throat. As she scuttled off, the man cleared his throat once more, and began speaking, his eyes still on the retreating waitress.

"So, Dr. Grant, we have social groupings, parental tendencies..."

"Yes, everything. Spatial recommendations, likely diets, suitable habitats, everything you'd need for an exhibit."

At the word 'exhibit', the man's face creased into a smile, and any suspicious quality that he had about him disappeared, and he took the coffee from the waitress with a polite 'thank you dear'. Grant caught the waitress raising one eyebrow as she turned away from him, and he suppressed a laugh. He crossed his left leg over his right, resting the ankle on his knee, and knelt back. "So, about my payment."

The man simply reached into a pocket inside his jacket, and pulled out a cheque, putting it on the table and sliding it over.

Grant picked it up and took one look at it, and then stuffed it into his pocket, smiling to himself.

The man stood up, not even looking at his coffee, and shook Grant's hand one last time. "Dr. Grant," he said courteously, and then turned away, walking out into the harsh sunlight, slipping on a pair of designer sunglasses.

A sudden exit; Grant was a little taken aback, but at least now he could get back to work without this hanging over him.

Well, Grant thought as he took a sip of coffee, after all that, it better be one hell of an exhibit.