Charles Darwin [antikvár]

Too late He was too late. His life's work had gone for nothing. The black land and its mysteries, the years of research, the endless sifting of fact after fact: what did it all count for now? It was twenty-three years since Charles Darwin, naturalist and future country gentleman, had started his great hunt for the truth. And he'd found it. He knew that, as well as he knew his own name. If only he'd managed to finish the book he was writing! If only he'd been less painstaking, less anxious to cover every possible quibble or objection. But it was all over now. A rival had arrived at the truth as well: a rival who would soon tell the world what he'd discovered. A rival who - Heaven help them both - had come to him for friendship and help. As, stooped and grim-faced, Darwin plodded on his midday walk, he knew he was facing the greatest crisis of his life. The black land Sweet and heady, the scents of early summer drifted past his nostrils. But he paid them no attention. In his mind, he was far from the English countryside, and years away from 1858. He was in a place where the Pacific Ocean's waves broke endlessly on a scorching black beach. On black rocks too hot for a man to touch, big dark lizards sprawled in luxury. Monstrous tortoises ambled by, munching cactus. Above them, perched on the cactus spines, small birds twittered. Over everything hung a harsh, heavy smell, as if the dry scrub were on fire.