MICHAEL CRICHTON

curve of a muddy river, or the straight deep red gash of a road. But for the mostpart they looked down upon an unbroken expanse of dense forest, extendingaway into the distance as far as the eye could see.The view was boring, and simultaneously frightening—it was frightening to beconfronted by what Stanley had called “the indifferent immensity of the naturalworld.” As one sat in the air-conditioned comfort of an airplane seat, it wasimpossible not to recognize that this vast, monotonous forest was a giantcreation of nature, utterly dwarfing in scale the greatest cities or other creationsof mankind. Each individual green puff of a tree had a trunk forty feet in diameter,soaring two hundred feet into the air; a space the size of a Gothic cathedral wasconcealed beneath its billowing foliage. And Elliot knew that the forest extendedto the west for nearly two thousand miles, until it finally stopped at the AtlanticOcean, on the west coast of Zaire.Elliot had been anticipating Amy’s reaction to this first view of the jungle, hernatural environment. She looked out the window with a fixed stare. She signedHere jungle with the same emotional neutrality that she named color cards, orobjects spread out on her trailer floor in San Francisco. She was identifying thejungle, giving a name to what she saw, but he sensed no deeper recognition.Elliot said to her, “Amy like jungle?”Jungle here, she signed. Jungle is.He persisted, probing for the emotional context that he was sure must bethere. Amy like jungle?Jungle here. Jungle is. Jungle place here Amy see jungle here.He tried another approach. “Amy live jungle here?”No. Expressionless.“Where Amy live?”Amy live Amy house. Referring to her trailer in San Francisco.Elliot watched her loosen her seat belt, cup her chin on her hand as she staredlazily out the window. She signed, Amy want cigarette.She had noticed Munro smoking.“Later, Amy,” Elliot said.110