Eagerly, Angus eased the cover back. Of the hundreds of pages it had originally contained, only flaked parts of two or three remained. The printing was scarcely legible on the moldy paper.
He read aloud those words he could discern:
"... to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside cool waters; He...."
Drummond jabbed Angus with a triumphant forefinger. "They didn't invent any religion, after all!"
"It isn't important how they got it. The fact that they accepted it—that's what's important." McIntosh glanced up at Drummond. "They probably found this in the wreck of the ship they'd been in. It's easy to see they haven't used it in hundreds of generations. Instead, the gist of what's in it was passed down orally. And their basic concepts of Man and supervisor were distorted all along the way—confused with the idea of God."
Gently, he let the cover fall. And a shining square of duraloid fell out.
"It's somebody's picture!" Drummond exclaimed.
"An ID card," Angus said, holding it so the light wouldn't reflect off its transparent protective cover.
It was a picture of a nondescript man—not as stout as Drummond, nor as lean as McIntosh—with hair neither all black, like the younger man's, nor nearly all white, like Angus's.