"A bright idea," I said. "Why didn't I think of that?" I thumbed through the book to the section in English and read for an hour. Starting with the entry dated January 19, 1710, the writer had scribbled a few lines every few months. He seemed to be some kind of pioneer in the Virginia Colony. He complained about prices, and the Indians, and the ignorance of the other settlers and every now and then threw in a remark about the Enemy. He often took long trips, and when he got home, he complained about those, too. "It's a funny thing, Foster," I said. "This is supposed to have been written over a period of a couple of hundred years, but it's all in the same hand. That's kind of odd, isn't it?" "Why should a man's handwriting change?" Foster said. "Well, it might get a little shaky there toward the last, don't you agree?" "Why is that?" "I'll spell it out, Foster," I said. "Most people don't live that long. A hundred years is stretching it, to say nothing of two." "This must be a very violent world, then," Foster said. "Skip it," I said. "You talk like you're just visiting. By the way; do you remember how to write?" Foster looked thoughtful. "Yes," he said. "I can write." I handed him the book and the stylus. "Try it," I said. Foster opened to a blank page, wrote, and handed the book back to me. "Always and always and always," I read. I looked at Foster. "What does that mean?" I looked at the words again, then quickly flipped to the pages written in English. I was no expert on penmanship, but this came up and cracked me right in the eye. The book was written in Foster's hand. * * * * * "It doesn't make sense," I was saying for the fortieth time. Foster nodded sympathetic agreement. "Why would you write out this junk yourself, and then spend all that time and money trying to have it deciphered? You said experts worked over it and couldn't break it. But," I went on, "you must have known you wrote it; you knew your own handwriting. But on the other hand, you had amnesia before; you had the idea you might have told something about yourself in the book...." I sighed, leaned back and tossed the book over to Foster. "Here, you read a while," I said. "I'm arguing with myself and I can't tell who's winning." Foster looked the book over carefully. "This is odd," he said. "What's odd?" "The book is made of khaff. It is a permanent material--and yet it shows damage." I sat perfectly still and waited. "Here on the back cover," Foster said. "A scuffed area. Since this is khaff, it cannot be an actual scar. It must have been placed there." I grabbed the book and looked. There was a faint mark across the back cover, as though the book had been scraped on something sharp. I remembered how much luck I had had with a knife. The mark had been put here, disguised as a casual nick in the finish. It had to mean something. "How do you know what the material is?" I asked.