Arles raised a hand, silencing him quickly. ‘Belief systems drift, just as languages do. The flame of the Doctrines still burns here, if not as brightly as we would wish. And, Doctrinal or not, this Post is useful. Always remember that, Hama: utility is a factor. This is a war, after all.’

Now two of the drones came before Hama, hand in hand, male and female, nude like the rest. This pair leaned close to each other, showing an easy physical familiarity.

They had made love, he saw immediately. Not once, but many times. Perhaps even recently. He felt an unwelcome pang of jealousy. But on a thong around her neck the female wore what looked hideously like a dried human ear. The fish in his chest squirmed.

He snapped: ‘What are your names?’

They didn’t understand his words, but comprehended the sense. They pointed to their chests. ‘La-ba.’ ‘Ca-si.’

Arles smiled, amused, contemptuous. ‘We have the perspective of gods. They have only their moment of light, and the warmth of each other’s body . . . What is it, Hama? Feeling a little attraction, despite your disgust? A little envy?’

With an angry gesture, Hama sentenced both the drones to the Cull. The drones, obviously shocked, clung to each other.

Arles laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Hama. You are yet young. You will grow - distant.’ Arles passed him the Memory.

Hama weighed the Memory; it was surprisingly heavy. It contained the story of the war since the Commission’s last visit to this backwater Observation Post, a glorious story rendered in simple, heroic images. The contents of the Memory would be downloaded into the Post’s fabric and transcribed on its walls, in images timeless enough to withstand further linguistic drift. Nothing else could be written or drawn on the surfaces of the Post - certainly nothing made by the inhabitants of this place. What had they to write or draw? What did they need to read, save the glorious progress of mankind?

‘Carry on alone. Perhaps it will be a useful discipline for you. One in three for the Cull. And remember - as you condemn them, love them.’ Arles walked away.

The drone couple had moved on. More ugly shaven heads moved past him, all alike, meaningless.

Later that night, when the Post’s sourceless light dimmed, Hama watched the drones dance their wild untutored tangoes, sensual and beautiful. He clung to the thought of how he had doomed the lovers: their shocked expressions, the way they had grabbed each other’s arms, their distress.

After another sleep, La-ba and Ca-si were thrust out of the Observation Post. Only one of them, La-ba or Ca-si, would come back - one, or neither, depending on the outcome of their combat. This was the Cull. A way of sifting out the strongest, while keeping down the population.