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appeared. Wingfingers nested in crooks in the rocks, their reptilian heads poking out, their membranous wings covered with silky fur wrapped tightly against their bodies to protect against the chill wind. The only thing marring the neat horizontal banding of the rocks was the countless white streaks caused by their droppings. But these were washed away by the frequent storms, leaving the book of stone layers scrubbed clean for a short time.
    Toroca and Babnol arrived on the beach shortly after noon. Overhead, the sun, tiny and white, was visible through the silvery clouds, but none of the thirteen moons was bright enough in the daytime to be visible through the haze.
    Far up ahead, they could see two other Quintaglios, barely more than green knots against the long expanse of beach, the vast cliffs, and the churning gray waters.
    Toroca cupped his hands to his muzzle and called out, “Ho!” There was no response, the wind whisking the word out over the waters. He shrugged, and they trudged on farther. Eventually, Toroca sang out again, and this time the distant figures did hear him. They turned around and waved. Toroca waved back and, although exhausted from five days of hiking, picked up his pace, trotting along to join his friends. Babnol followed alongside. She stopped about fifteen paces away from the others, an appropriate distance when approaching individuals one has not met before. Toroca, though, surged in as close as six paces from the nearest of them, a distance too close by anyone’s standards. Reflexively, the other Quintaglios backed up a couple of steps.
    It was Delplas and Spalton, the madness of dagamant long forgotten, Spalton’s arm regenerating nicely. “Who’s this?” said Delplas. “Surely not Dak-Forgool?”
    Toroca shook his head. “Forgool is dead. Wab-Babnol here has come to join us in his place. Babnol, meet two of the best surveyors in all of Land.” His voice was full of warmth. “This reprobate is Gan-Spalton. He has a sly sense of humor, so watch yourself when around him — and only listen to him in the light of day.”
    Babnol bowed. “I cast a shadow in your presence, Gan-Spalton.”
    Spalton looked as though he was going to make some comment, possibly about Babnol’s horn. But, perhaps catching the expression on Toroca’s face, he said nothing, and simply bowed deeply.
    “And this is Bar-Delplas.”
    “Greetings,” said Babnol.
    “What?” said Delplas with a click of her teeth. “No shadow-casting?”
    “I’m sorry,” said Babnol. “I cast a…”
    Delplas held up her hand. “If you really want to cast something near me,” she said, “let it be a net. The waters are rough here, but the fishing is excellent nonetheless. Do you like fish, Babnol?”
    “I’ve rarely had any; I’m from an inland Pack.”
    “Well, then you’ve only had freshwater fish. Wait till you taste true River fish!”
    Babnol dipped her head. “I’m looking forward to it.”
    The four of them began to amble down the beach. “You’ll meet the other four surveyors later,” Toroca said to Babnol. Then he turned to face Delplas. “Babnol is an experienced fossil hunter,” said Toroca.
    “Whom did you study under?” asked Delplas.
    “I’m self-taught,” said Babnol, her head once again tilted up in that haughty way.
    Delplas turned toward Toroca, her face a question.
    “She’s not a trained geologist,” he said, “but she’s very experienced. And she’s eager to learn.”
    Delplas considered for a moment, then: “Would that more of our people shared your passion for learning, Babnol.” She bowed deeply. “Welcome to the Geological Survey of Land.”
    “I’m delighted to be a part of it,” Babnol replied warmly.
    “You’ll be even more delighted when you see what wonders we’ve found,” said Toroca. He faced Spalton. “Still nothing below the Bookmark layer?”
    “Nothing. We’ve taken thousands of samples, and still not a single find.”
    “The Bookmark layer?” said