The large ones rival your bedroom in length and would brush their heads against the ceiling. Dappled and striped scales cover their bulky torsos and tails. Distinctive ridge lines send crenellations from their brows over their small-brained skulls, down their thick necks, and along their arcing spines, nearly to the tips of their tails. Many of them stand on all fours dozing or placidly crunching pinecones, needles, and foliage with their broad mouths, undoubtedly enjoying the sun. But when they choose to move, you gape at the way they lumber about. All that weight shifts backward to balance on comparatively slender ankles and fat three-toed feet. Then they drop down again and even take a few steps on all fours as they feed.
"Guth," Brett says, pointing. "Those things are their nests!"
Low rings of greenish-brown rotting vegetation cover the terrace, evenly spaced, with narrow corridors between them. You say, "So this is life in prehistoric suburbia. Can't say as I'm big on their color scheme."
"Suburbia, only without the nuclear families."
Brett is right. There's one adult per nest, plus either a brood of young ones or a clutch of eggs shaped and colored like cantaloupes but as big as honeydew melons. With mounting excitement, you notice something significant: the adult duckbills may all be females. In many nests, newly hatched babies and youngsters squawk for attention. Like most newborn creatures (apart from birds), they're adorable, with their gleaming green hides, outsize heads, and dark eyes, not to mention those shiny bills that they've yet to grow into.
"Ha!" you exclaim. "Paleontologists will tell you that they're born with proportionally tiny bills. Not true for this species." Brett nods, impressed with your acumen.
You fall silent, gazing across the Hadrosaurus nesting grounds stretched out before you, contemplating the unprecedented opportunity that awaits. That is, if you don't find yourself doing something, whether accidentally or deliberately, to rile up these massive beasts. You break out your…