I have often wondered how Kephren stuck so assiduously to his task of documenting the daily lives of other Krystonians and decoding the manuscripts of civilizations when he could have been out
about, actually in the thick of things.
Their approach up the grassy incline did not go unnoticed. Deep within the hollow crown of a broken tree which grew apart from the forest and commanded a view bound over this sloping
heath land, a large black bird watching through unblinking eyes.
Sometimes, when the cloud layer rode high over the distant coastal strip, the same bird had been able to mark the progress of changing weather fronts as they
moved in from the open sea and approached land. Today was such a day, but, at last, it had seen something of far greater consequence than a gathering storm. On the seventeenth morning of the bird's uncomfortable, solitary vigil, a
traveler had finally arrived . . .