There was a bold orange-and-black sticker on the side reading THIS END UP, and another reading DANGER: OMNIVORE.

“I don’t understand,” Salley said. “Why would I have to go in a crate?”

“I’m afraid you won’t like the answer,” Griffin said uncomfortably.

“Don’t tell me what I will or won’t like.”

“You see,” Jimmy said, “we anticipated that something of this sort might come up and so we made preparations. There’s a rider on the Old Man’s clearance that allows me to be brought along as muscle. You, however, were not anticipated. There’s simply no way you could possibly accompany us as a member of the security team.”

Griffin wanted to tell Jimmy to moderate his manner. Salley had been simmering for a while now. She was ready to cause a scene. Griffin had enough experience with women to know this. But, though he mellowed in later life, Jimmy in his younger days was every bit as hard to handle as Salley herself.

“So?” Salley said.

That sharkish grin again. A jaunty nod toward the box. He was a sadistic little shit, was Jimmy, at this age. “So you’ll be traveling as a biological specimen.”

Lost Expedition Foothills: Mesozoic era. Cretaceous period. Senonian epoch. Maastrichtian age. 65 My B.C.E.

The anatotitans were nesting on Egg Island. A mating pair of ankylosaurs was grumpily fossicking about in the shrubs along the river. And Her Ladyship was having a difficult time controlling her rambunctious young. They were at an age when they kept wandering away from the encampment, and she had to keep shooing them back.

Juvenile tyrannosaurs, unlike their aloof elders, were fiercely curious beings. They examined everything they saw, and attacked anything that moved. The mortality rate among juveniles was extremely high, but those who survived into adulthood were cagy and experienced creatures.

Jamal had built an observation platform high in the trees above Smoke Hollow, and another on Barren Ridge. Between them, it was possible to get a good overview of everything that happened in the valley. The Barren Ridge platform was the better of the two, however, because it afforded an excellent view of the tyrannosaur camp.

It was Leyster’s turn on the Barren Ridge watch that day. Branches of the tree shook and rattled as Katie swung her way up to him. She popped over the edge of the platform and handed him a fried fish wrapped in leaves.

“Morning, dear. I brought you lunch.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. “How are the children?”

“See for yourself.” He handed her the binoculars. “She’s lost another one. Scarface.”

There were sixteen tyrannosaur juveniles remaining out of the original twenty, and they were all ugly as gargoyles. They were only two meters tall, and still young enough that their molt wasn’t complete yet. Splotchy patches of hairy gray feathers clung here and there on all of them, looking for all the world like fungus infections.

“Here comes the breadwinner,” Katie said.

The Lord of the Valley clambered awkwardly over the log-and-brushwood barrier he and his mate had shoved into a ring around the encampment. A bloody edmontosaur haunch dangled from his mouth.

The juveniles came running up to him, squawking with excitement. Avidly, they jumped (jumping was one thing an adult, with all that weight, could not do) and snapped at the meat.

With a grunt, the Lord let it drop to the ground.

The juveniles swarmed over the haunch, tearing at it so savagely their snouts were spattered with blood. Slasher got in the way of Adolf, and got her tail bitten for doing so. She squealed like a pig, then scrambled back to the meat, roughly shoving Attila and Lizzy Borden out of her way.

“That is not an edifying sight,” Katie said. “How can you watch that and eat at the same time?”

Leyster dug into the fish with relish. Now that their supply of freeze-dried was gone, they were largely reliant on what they could catch or trap, and as a result there were times when they did not eat well at all. It made him appreciate the times when they did. “Hunger is an excellent sauce.”

Privately, though, the sight of those little horrors feeding always made him glad there was a ravine between him and them.

Without putting the binoculars down, Katie said, “You know what I’ve always wondered?”

“What?”

“Why don’t dinosaurs have external ears? Ears are ever so handy. It seems like they’d be much easier to evolve than, say, beaks. Or wings. So why don’t the kids down there have great big floppy elephant ears?”

“Good question. I don’t know. Here’s another. Where do the dinosaurs go when they’re not here? One day they’re everywhere. Then, a morning later, you wake up and they’re nowhere to be seen. Four months after that, you find a tyrannosaur pacing off the valley, and next thing you know, they’re back. We’re going to have to follow the herds next rainy season. Physically, I mean.”

They’d tried monitoring the migrations over the satellite downlink during the previous winter. But the Ptolemy system was designed primarily for mapping. Its resolution was poor, and, worse, it couldn’t see through clouds. Which were, unfortunately, quite common in the rainy season. They’d been able to track only a general trend inland, where the herds dispersed and effectively disappeared from the screen.

Leyster yearned with all his heart to follow them. In the rainy season only the smaller dinosaurs—the feathered dinosaurs—remained to chastise the frogs, mammals, fish, and lizards. The river plain grew lush and thick as a jungle, but to Leyster it felt empty and soulless without the larger dinos. “We’ll never understand these guys until we understand the patterns of their migration. Finding out has got to be our first order of business.”

“Our second, actually. Chuck says we need veggies, so you’ve been drafted to lead an expedition to gather marsh tubers.”

“Me! Why me? I was going to spend today making twine and re-reading Much Ado About Nothing.‘’ He gestured toward the basket full of fiber and his volume of collected Shakespeare, lying beside the field observations notebook.

Katie smiled sweetly. “You’re the one who found the tubers. Nobody else knows where they are.” She moved the books to her side, and the basket to her lap. “I’ll be happy to take over for you here, however.”

Leyster recruited Patrick and Tamara to accompany him to Skeeter Marsh. Despite his grousing, he was glad to be going. It wasn’t the lazy, productive day he’d planned, but food gathering was easy work, and entailed a long and pleasant walk through countryside he loved. It was even possible they’d spot something new in dinosaurian behavior.

Since they’d used up their shotgun shells long ago, he and Patrick carried clubs (in Leyster’s case the shovel; in Patrick’s an otherwise-useless gun) to protect themselves against chance attacks from dromaeosaurs. Dromies were the only carnivores so little reliant on smell that they’d attack a human being under normal circumstances. The stench of cookfire smoke that permeated their hair and clothing and skin protected them from pretty much everything else. Except the crocodiles, and those tended to stay by the water.

Tamara, of course, carried her spear. She had spent months during the rainy season laboriously grinding the head from an iron flange that had originally been a piece of bracing for their supplies. Then she had set the leaf-shaped product into a seasoned hardwood haft with a resin glue, and wrapped it tight with hadrosaur tendon.

The result was a murderous-looking weapon they all called “Tamara’s Folly.”

She carried it everywhere and worked on her throwing skills for at least an hour every day. She said it made her feel safe.