The scorched book caught Zinzibar"s attention as soon as he waddled through the archway into the great hall. It was lying on a pile of rubble on the mosaic tiles. Its cover was red, and from where he stood about five metres away, it looked to be made of plastic.
The wall on the far side of the arena had collapsed at some time in the dim and distant past, and now a watery sun poured delicate rays through where it had once towered firm and strong.
Zinzibar wrinkled his two-foot-long trunk in distaste. His three eyes strained to the edge of their stalks, surveying the wreckage and decay around him. His left uppermost tentacle shot out and gingerly rubbed the surface of the book.
He decided it wasn"t plastic, even though it had that same peculiar shiny hue; it was a type of coated cardboard
