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really.”
    “We’ll climb up tomorrow, and I’ll show you. The layer in question is still a good fifteen paces from the top, of course, this being a big cliff, but — ah!” Spalton had disappeared a few moments ago into one of the tents and had now emerged holding a brass tube with an ornate crest on one end. “Thank you, Spalton,” said Toroca, taking the object.
    “A far-seer,” said Babnol, her voice full of wonder. “I’ve heard of them, but never seen one up close.”
    “Not just any far-seer,” said Delplas, jerking her head at the instrument Toroca now held. “That’s the one Wab-Novato gave to Sal-Afsan the morning after Toroca was conceived.”
    Toroca looked embarrassed. “It meant a great deal to my father,” he said, “but once he was blinded, he could no longer use it. He wanted it to still be employed in the search for knowledge, and gave it to me when I embarked on my first expedition as leader of the Geological Survey.” He proffered the device to Babnol.
    She took it reverently, held the cool length in front of her with both hands, felt its weight, the weight of history. “Afsan’s far-seer…” she said with awe.
    “Go ahead,” said Toroca. “Put it to your eye. Look at the cliff.”
    She raised the tube. “Everything looks tiny!” she said.
    Clicking of teeth from Spalton and Delplas. “That’s the wrong end,” said Toroca gently. “Try it the other way.”
    She reversed the tube. “Spectacular!” She turned slowly through a half-circle. “That’s amazing!”
    “You can sharpen the image by rotating the other part,” Toroca said.
    “Wonderful,” breathed Babnol.
    “Now, look at the cliff face.”
    She turned back to the towering wall of layered downrock. “Hey! There’s — what did you say his name was?”
    “If it’s the fellow in the blue sash, it’s Tralen.”
    “Tralen, yes.”
    “All right. Scan up the cliff face until you come to a layer of white rock. Not light brown, but actual white. You can’t miss it.”
    “I don’t — wait a beat! There it is!”
    “Right,” said Toroca. “That’s what we call the Bookmark layer. It’s white because it’s made of chalk. There are no chalk layers below it because there are no shells of aquatic animals below it.”
    Babnol lowered the far-seer. “I don’t see the connection.”
    “Chalk is made of fossilized shells,” said Delplas. “We often find beautiful shell pieces in chalk layers.”
    “Oh. We have no chalk in Arj’toolar. Lots of limestone, though — which is also made from shells.”
    Delplas nodded. “That’s right.”
    “But here,” said Toroca, “there are no fossil shells below that first white layer.” He leaned forward. “In fact, there are no fossils of any kind beneath that first white layer.”
    Babnol lifted the far-seer again, letting her circular view slide up and down the cliff face. “No fossils below,” she said slowly.
    “But plenty above,” said Toroca. “There’s nothing gradual about it. Starting with that white layer, and in every subsequent layer, the rock is full of fossils.”
    “Then the — what did you call it? — the Bookmark layer…”
    Toroca nodded. “The Bookmark layer marks the point in our world’s history at which life was created. Drink in the sight, Babnol. You’re seeing the beginning of it all!”

*6*
    A Quintaglio’s Diary
    I get tired of spending time with my siblings. It’s strange, because I have no idea how I should react. With others, my territorial instinct seems to operate properly. I know, without thinking, when I should get out of someone’s way and when I can reasonably expect someone to yield to me. But with my brothers and sisters, it’s different. Sometimes I feel as though their presence, no matter how close, doesn’t bother me in the least. At other times, I find myself challenging their territory for no good reason at all. That they are exactly the same age as me — neither younger nor older, neither bigger nor