by Michael Crichton
Knopf; 413 pages; $19.95
Ah, there, Dr. Frankenstein, mucking about with dinosaur DNA are you? Good strong fence around the lab, hmmm? But the villagers seem a bit restless anyway? Well, what do they know?
At least for the purpose of this new techno-thriller, his best by far since The Andromeda Strain, Michael Crichton accepts the charge that genetic research these days is a headlong, unregulated profit-and-glory grab by microbiologists with more skill than wisdom. Suppose, says Crichton, that a respectable paleozoologist (call him Alan Grant) begins to get increasingly detailed queries from a secretive corporate...