Jim Ketchum's first sensation after arriving was the smell of rotting vegetation. The air was so thick with it that the stink clung to his skin. Tropical heat filled his lungs each time he took in air.
Ketchum froze. He faced forward, but his hearing was tuned to the towering canopy and dark forest floor behind him. He thought of his former colleague, Jeff Brister, who had battled a sub-adult pterosaur on a cliff in southern China before falling to his death. Ketchum's bladder urged him to flee, but after some minutes of silent prayer (God, too, was 70 million years in the future) he turned slowly, pivoting on the balls of his feet, ready to make a run for it.