“Evolution accounts for all the diversity of life,” said Toroca. “Of that I’m sure. You see that lowest of the white layers in the rocks near the top of the cliff? The one we’ve called the Bookmark layer? That name is more apt than we knew: it marks the beginning of our story here, on this world, but by no means the real beginning of the saga of the Quintaglios. That book, as I’ve said, is elsewhere. We used to think the Bookmark marked the point of creation, but it does nothing of the kind. It merely marks the point of arrival. Life originated elsewhere, evolved elsewhere.”
They all looked up at the cliff face, awe on their faces.
At last, Toroca pointed at the great blue ark. “And that, and doubtless others like it that did not fail, is how we got here.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe it was indeed one of eight ships.” He glanced at Babnol. “Maybe, in that metaphorical sense, the story of the eggs of creation is correct.”
He looked at them each in turn. “But, in any event, a huge time ago by our own standards, although quite recently in terms of the overall age of this world, our ancestors were—were—deposited here, transplanted by those astonishing beings who built this ship.”
Dybo leaned back on his tail. “A ship of space,” he said again. Everyone was quiet for a time, until Dybo spoke once more. “This gives the exodus new meaning.” The Emperor tipped his head up, up, past layer after layer of rock, past the vast blue ark, past the Bookmark layer, past it all, all the way to the sky, far overhead. “We’re not just going to the stars,” he said, his voice full of wonder. And then he tipped his muzzle down and nodded at his friends. “We’re going home.”