north and don’t eat people. There is one advantage to the Honduran swamps: no leeches. Watch out for the monkey spiders, though—”
“So sorry, but we’ll have to leave the monkey spiders for another day,” said Tom, looking at his watch. He realized that Mr. Derek Dunn had his hand under the table, resting on Sally’s knee.
“Not having second thoughts are you, old chap? This is not a country for pantywaists.”
“Not at all,” said Tom. “It’s just that I’d rather hear about your encounter with the toothpick fish.”
Derek Dunn stared at Tom unsmiling. “That’s a rather stale joke, my friend.”
“Well!” said Sally brightly. “Did you make the trip alone? We’ve been looking for a guide and wondered if you could recommend someone.”
“Where are you chaps headed?”
“Brus Laguna.”
“You are getting off the tourist trail.” Suddenly his eyes narrowed. “You’re not a writer, are you?”
Sally laughed. “Oh no, I’m an archaeologist, and he’s a horse vet. But we’re just here as tourists. We like to have adventures.”
“An archaeologist? There aren’t many ruins around here. You can’t build in a swamp. And no civilized people would ever live in those interior mountains. Up there in the Sierra Azul there’s no denser rainforest on earth, and the hills are so steep you can hardly crawl up and down them. There isn’t a flat place to pitch a tent for a hundred miles. You’ve got to cut your way through, and in a hard day of travel you’re lucky to make a mile. A trail macheted through there will knit itself up so tight in a week you’d never know it existed. If it’s ruins you’re after, Sally, why don’t you head over to Copán? Perhaps I could tell you more about it over dinner.”
The hand was still on her knee, squeezing and rubbing.
“Right,” said Sally. “Maybe. Getting back to the guide. Do you have any recommendations?”
“Guide? Oh yes. The man for you is Don Orlando Ocotal. A Tawahka Indian. Absolutely reliable. Won’t cheat you like the others. Knows the country like the back of his hand. He was with me on my last trip.”
“How do we find him?”
“He lives up the Patuca River, a place called Pito Solo, the last real settlement on the river before the big interior swamps begin. That’s forty, maybe fifty miles upriver from Brus. Stay in the main channel of the river or you’ll never get out alive. This time of year the forests are flooded, and there’re a zillion side channels going every which way. That country is virtually unexplored, from the swamps all the way past the Sierra Azul down to the Guayambré River. Forty thousand square kilometers of terra incognita.”
“We haven’t really decided where we’re going.”
“Don Orlando. He’s your man.” Then Derek Dunn revolved in his seat and faced Tom with his big sweaty face. “Say, I’m a bit short of funds—royalty check in the mail and all that. Perhaps you could spot us another round, what say?”
15
On the computer screen nestled discreetly among the cherrywood paneling in his office, Lewis Skiba watched the progress of Lampe-Denison Pharmaceuticals on the New York Stock Exchange. Investors had been hammering the stock all day, and it was now trading at close to ten. Even as he watched, the stock ticked down another eighth of a point to trade at ten even.
Skiba did not want to see his company go into single digits. He flicked off the screen. His eyes flickered to the wood panel that hid the Macallan, but it was too soon for that. Too soon. He needed a clear head for the call.
Rumors were circulating that Phloxatane was in trouble at the FDA. The short sellers were all over the stock, like maggots on a corpse. Two hundred million dollars of R&D had gone into that drug. Lampe had worked with the best medical researchers and scientists at three Ivy League universities. The double-blind tests had been well conceived, the data massaged and patted into the best
“So sorry, but we’ll have to leave the monkey spiders for another day,” said Tom, looking at his watch. He realized that Mr. Derek Dunn had his hand under the table, resting on Sally’s knee.
“Not having second thoughts are you, old chap? This is not a country for pantywaists.”
“Not at all,” said Tom. “It’s just that I’d rather hear about your encounter with the toothpick fish.”
Derek Dunn stared at Tom unsmiling. “That’s a rather stale joke, my friend.”
“Well!” said Sally brightly. “Did you make the trip alone? We’ve been looking for a guide and wondered if you could recommend someone.”
“Where are you chaps headed?”
“Brus Laguna.”
“You are getting off the tourist trail.” Suddenly his eyes narrowed. “You’re not a writer, are you?”
Sally laughed. “Oh no, I’m an archaeologist, and he’s a horse vet. But we’re just here as tourists. We like to have adventures.”
“An archaeologist? There aren’t many ruins around here. You can’t build in a swamp. And no civilized people would ever live in those interior mountains. Up there in the Sierra Azul there’s no denser rainforest on earth, and the hills are so steep you can hardly crawl up and down them. There isn’t a flat place to pitch a tent for a hundred miles. You’ve got to cut your way through, and in a hard day of travel you’re lucky to make a mile. A trail macheted through there will knit itself up so tight in a week you’d never know it existed. If it’s ruins you’re after, Sally, why don’t you head over to Copán? Perhaps I could tell you more about it over dinner.”
The hand was still on her knee, squeezing and rubbing.
“Right,” said Sally. “Maybe. Getting back to the guide. Do you have any recommendations?”
“Guide? Oh yes. The man for you is Don Orlando Ocotal. A Tawahka Indian. Absolutely reliable. Won’t cheat you like the others. Knows the country like the back of his hand. He was with me on my last trip.”
“How do we find him?”
“He lives up the Patuca River, a place called Pito Solo, the last real settlement on the river before the big interior swamps begin. That’s forty, maybe fifty miles upriver from Brus. Stay in the main channel of the river or you’ll never get out alive. This time of year the forests are flooded, and there’re a zillion side channels going every which way. That country is virtually unexplored, from the swamps all the way past the Sierra Azul down to the Guayambré River. Forty thousand square kilometers of terra incognita.”
“We haven’t really decided where we’re going.”
“Don Orlando. He’s your man.” Then Derek Dunn revolved in his seat and faced Tom with his big sweaty face. “Say, I’m a bit short of funds—royalty check in the mail and all that. Perhaps you could spot us another round, what say?”
15
On the computer screen nestled discreetly among the cherrywood paneling in his office, Lewis Skiba watched the progress of Lampe-Denison Pharmaceuticals on the New York Stock Exchange. Investors had been hammering the stock all day, and it was now trading at close to ten. Even as he watched, the stock ticked down another eighth of a point to trade at ten even.
Skiba did not want to see his company go into single digits. He flicked off the screen. His eyes flickered to the wood panel that hid the Macallan, but it was too soon for that. Too soon. He needed a clear head for the call.
Rumors were circulating that Phloxatane was in trouble at the FDA. The short sellers were all over the stock, like maggots on a corpse. Two hundred million dollars of R&D had gone into that drug. Lampe had worked with the best medical researchers and scientists at three Ivy League universities. The double-blind tests had been well conceived, the data massaged and patted into the best
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