There were about a dozen in the group touring the monastery, Church of the Search for His Image Regained. The group was led by Comrade Gabro, who his Comrades of the Search called (behind his back), "The Well-Nourished One."

Emil didn't shift eyestalks from his task of cataloging snowflakes, of course, when he first saw the group enter the Hall. Inattention to one's duty was a sacrilege. Besides, he and the two hundred and sixteen monks in the cold, cavernous Hall of His Image Recounted could see from the corners of their eyestalks. The monks had long become accustomed to the monotonous cataloging of snowflakes in their billions, sunrise to sunset, decit after decit, yosim after yosim, each monk at his station in neat row after neat row from one end of the large, high-ceilinged room to the other, one snowflake at a time, with one tentacle, one eyestalk and one part of the brain. The devotional search routine thus accommodated, that left the other tentacles, eyestalks and brain-half at ease for daydreams and other entertainment.

Behind the appearance of machine-like industriousness in the Hall, an appearance the monks dedicated themselves to maintaining, almost as much as they dedicated themselves to The Search, they carried on elaborate conversations, debates, jokes, discussions, fantasies, and such. They did it with footpad taps, small tentacle gestures, and eyestalk flicks too fast to be detected by outside observers. And they did it all so silently, so subtly, that not only did the tourists never notice, but the Abbots at their floor monitors just off the Hall proper saw no deviation from the norm on their screens. If they did, they never let on.

At first, it looked like the usual thrice daily tour group. Six or seven appeared to be human, there was a Belarite triple, the middie's birthsac bulging with fetus, and a pair of Varois--twins, or perhaps clones. And one Amuno, a female. The female looked to Emil so much like his beloved Kistra that he lost composure for a moment and dropped the snowflake.