Hammond Norman Expeditions
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Outside, somewhere beyond the fog, the cargo vessel’s horn sounded low and mournful.
“Fine. Lumeria.” He spoke the word like it tasted bad. “Supposedly there was once a continent spread across half the Pacific. Older than charts. Older than empire. Volcanoes, jungles, cliffs. Whole civilizations swallowed when the earth cracked open.”
“A myth,” said the mechanic.
“A myth that keeps showing up on naval maps with sections painted over.”
That shut the room up again.
The cook took another drag. “Denham’s 1933 expedition thought they’d found one surviving fragment. Big wall. Giant footprints. Things in the fog bigger than trucks. Most people only remember the movie reels.”
“The footage was edited,” Hammond said quietly.
The cook nodded. “Yeah. Real heavily.”
Norman flipped a notebook page, revealing a pencil drawing of two enormous mountains rising from jungle cloud cover. “The 1976 survey crew described these,” he said. “Twin volcanic structures visible only at dawn.”
“Only one mountain was there by noon,” added the navigator.
Nobody asked how a mountain disappears.
The cook continued. “Then came the 1962 expedition. Scientific outfit. Weird bunch. Brought crates of maize, berry cultures, growth agents, radios, steel fencing. Said they were studying ecological inheritance.” He laughed under his breath.
“Couple months later half the crew returned talking about giant reptiles moving through crop fields at night.”
“And the other half?” someone asked.
The cook stared at the cigarette ember. “Didn’t.”
The Venture groaned as a wave struck the hull. From somewhere below deck came the clank of unsecured cargo.
Norman closed his notebook. “What about the survivor in 1979?”
The cook looked toward the dark porthole window.
