Cretaceous Sea

'Well, I would like to cook a fish like the one that creature caught. I have never seen such a fish.' Rick looked at Pandit in disbelief. 'What?'

'You asked me about my sense of adventure.'

'Maybe I should fetch a dinosaur to roast.'

'Yes,' said Pandit, 'but a small one.'

Rick laughed. 'It'd probably taste like chicken.'

'Perhaps,' admitted Pandit. 'There is only one way to find out.'

'Are you serious?'

'Why not? Mr. Neville said, long ago, safari cooks always served game. Back then, catching dinner was part of the guide's job.'

'I guess the robotic animals they have nowadays don't make for much of a stew.' Pandit sighed. 'In Uganda, we just pretended we were on safari. That's why Mr. Neville quit, you know. He could remember when it was still real. But this will be real,' said Pandit with dawning enthusiasm.

'You know, I never considered the possibilities. There are all sorts of things downwhen people have never tasted.'

'Or tasted people,' added Rick.

'True,' said Pandit. 'But, as the chef, what people eat is my concern. What eats people is yours.'

'I'll try to remember that,' said Rick.

'I'm sure Mr. Green will be most gratified.'

AS SALVATORE RUSSO parked his car, he was filled with hope that his luck was about to change. So far, his per-sistence had gone unrewarded, for images of Greighton and his fiancee were old news. The other paparazzi had gone off to chase more lucrative celebrities, but Sal had kept up his pursuit. Tonight, it looked like it might pay off.

What inspired Sal's hope was that Greighton's daugh-ter had joined him and his fiancee in the limo. That alone was something; there were no shots of the fiancee and the kid together. Maybe tonight he could bag that special image that would bring in the big bucks. A full-blown argument would be worth a small fortune, but any con-flict, even hostile looks, would sell. He trailed them hop-ing to catch them at the restaurant or wherever they were going. All he needed was to get in close. Even if nothing was happening, he was confident he could provoke a re-action that any good caption writer could make interest-ing. Surprise was on his side. Best of all, he was alone. With no competition, he needn't be rushed.

His quarry led him to a strange destination, a building in a run-down industrial part of town. Sal stayed in his car and spied on Greighton and the two women through the telephoto lens of his datacam. He shot a few images, but doubted they'd bring much. He watched the chauffeur unlock a door to the building and escort his passengers inside before returning and removing luggage from the trunk. What's that for?

wondered Sal. A secret wedding? A honeymoon? He fantasized what images of that would be worth. Sal forced himself to wait a few minutes before he left his car. He had turned off his headlights for the past few miles, but he still wanted to be sure he hadn't been ob-served. Just when he was reasonably sure he was not ex-pected, all the streetlights went out. This is my lucky night, he thought. No one will see me now. He slipped out of his car into the darkness.

Sal did not even try the door to the building—he had seen the chauffeur lock it. The high fence in the rear looked more promising. He knew most people placed a naive faith in fences, assuming they brought privacy. Yet climbing was an essential skill in Sal's business, and he approached the obstacle as a seasoned professional. A quick walk around the perimeter revealed a spot with promising handholds and footholds. He slung his datacam around his neck and began to climb.

The sight beyond the top of the fence was totally un-expected. The screened-in area was almost entirely filled by a strange craft. Although Sal had never seen anything like it, the words 'flying saucer' immediately came to mind. Using one hand to grip the top of the fence, Sal used the other to aim his datacam. He adjusted the zoom lens to wide-angle and framed an image of the saucer. Now he wished the streetlights were on so he'd have more light for the shot. As he recorded the image, ques-tions popped into his mind. What the hell is this thing? What does it have to do with Greighton? Why did he bring his daughter and his fiancee here? Sal was con-vinced the answers to those questions could only be found on the other side of the fence. He lowered the da-tacam to let it dangle from its neck strap and, grabbing the top of the fence with both hands, prepared to pull himself over. There was a muffled popping sound, instantly followed by an intense burning sensation in his right shoulder. Sal lost his grip and fell backwards off the fence, slamming into the ground. He lay on his back in a haze of pain. Staring at the fence, he dully realized that the dark stain near the top was his own blood. The next thing he saw was a burly man standing over him. He had a dispas-sionate look. Sal thought that he might be the chauffeur, although he wasn't sure. It was dark, and Sal's eyes were having trouble focusing. The man leaned over. There was something in his hand. Sal tried to make out what it was. When it was inches from his head, Sal saw it was a gun. Tonight was not lucky after all. NICK ZHUKOVSKY REENTERED the