…He had lost his hat. He saw it on the ground.

There was a ringing in his ears. He ought to get his hat. He bent to reach it.

Next thing he knew, he was on his side. He lay there fuming.

The hat was too far away to reach, so he wriggled that way. Like a snake, he thought, cackling. When he had his hat he stuck it on the side of his head, so it shielded his face.

At least the palaeo training had been relevant, he thought. Too much of the rest of his time had been filled up with pointless exercises like this. They had even threatened to put him back in a centrifuge. “I told them to stick the fucking centrifuge where the sun don’t shine,” he muttered.

The sand was hot and soft. Its pressure seemed to ease the pain in his head. Maybe he would sleep awhile.

There were hands under his hips and shoulders, pushing him onto his back. A face above him blocked out the sky. It, she, was saying something. Nemoto, of course.

He said, “Leave me alone.”

She leaned closer. “Open your mouth.” She lifted a flask and poured in water.

He made to spit it out, but that would be even more stupid. He swallowed it. “Stop that. We have to save it.”

“You’re dehydrated, Malenfant. You know the drill. You drink what you have until it’s gone, and if you have not been found by then, you die of thirst. Simple logic. Either way it does no good to ration your water.”

“Horse feathers,” he said. But he let her pour more water into his mouth. It was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.

Emma Stoney:

They continued to work their way east. A range of mountains, low and eroded almost to shapelessness, began to loom above the horizon. Though their outlines and colours were softened to blurs by the murky air, Emma thought she made out bands of vegetation, forest perhaps, on their lower slopes.

After another day’s walking, the Runners paused by a shallow, slow-running stream.

Sally threw herself flat on the ground. She seemed to go to sleep at once. Maxie, as ever full of life at precisely the wrong time, ran off to play with the Runner children.

Emma sat on dusty grass and eased off her boots. Maybe her feet were toughening up; at least she didn’t have to pour any blood out of her boots today. She limped to the stream to drink, wash her face, bathe her feet. She found a stand of root plants, a little like potatoes, small enough to dig out of the ground. It was a pleasure for once to be able to provide for herself.

Emma watched the Runners. The descending sun had turned the western sky a tall orange-pink — volcano sunset, she thought — and peering through the dusty air was like looking into a tank of shining water, through which exotic creatures swam.

The stream had washed down a rich supply of volcanic pebbles, and many of the adults were knapping tools. They squatted on their haunches in the stream, their lithe bodies folded up like penknives, tapping one stone against another. The axes they made were flattened slabs of stone, easy to grip, with clean sharp edges. Stone axes and wooden spears: the only tools the Runners ever made, over and over, tools they turned to every task from butchering carcasses to shaving even though their hands were clearly just as capable of fine manipulation as Emma’s.

There were a lot of oddities, if you watched carefully.

The toolmakers worked in silence and isolation, as if the others didn’t exist. Emma never saw a Runner pick up a tool dropped by somebody else and use it, not once. A few children and young adults sat beside their elders, watching, trying to copy them. Mostly the adults ignored their apprentices; only very rarely did Emma see examples of coaching, such as when one woman picked a rock from out of a boy’s hand and turned it around so it served to flake the anvil stone better.

All the tools turned out by the women, so far as Emma could tell, were functional. But some of the men’s were different. Take Stone, for example, the bullying alpha-male. Sometimes he would sit and labour for hours at an axe, knocking off a chip here, a flake there. It was as if he pursued some impossible dream of symmetry or fineness, working at his axe far beyond the point where he could be adding any value.

Or, more strangely, he would sit with a pile of stones and work feverishly, turning out axe after axe. But some of these “axes” were mere flakes of rock the size of Emma’s thumb — and some were great monsters that she could have held only in two hands, like a book opened for reading. These pathological designs seemed no use as tools; Stone would do no more than carry them around with him for a few hours, making sure everybody saw them, before dumping them, never used, their edges as sharp as the instant they were made.

Emma didn’t know why Stone did this. Maybe it was a dim groping towards culture: hand-axe as art form. After all, the hand-axe was the only meaningful artefact they actually made, taking planning and vision and a significant skill; their other “tools’, like their termite-digging sticks or even their spears, were little more than broken-off bits of wood or bone, based on serendipitous discoveries of raw materials, scarcely finished. The hand-axe was the only way the Runners had to express themselves.

But if that was so, why didn’t the women join in such “artistic” activities as well?

Or maybe the useless hand-axes were about sex, not practicality or culture. After all to be able to make a decent axe showed a broad range of skills planning, vision, manual skills, strength — essential for survival in this unforgiving wilderness. Look at me, girls. I’m so fit and strong and full of food, I’ve got time to waste on these useless monsters and fingernail-sized scale models. Look at me! When everybody around you had a body as drop-dead beautiful as any athlete’s she had ever seen, you needed something to stand out from the crowd.

Could that be true? The Runners had to enjoy something like full humanity, in planning and vision and concentration, when making the axes. But could they then abandon that humanity and revert to some lower level of instinct, as the axes became a symbol of sexual prowess, as unconscious as a bird’s bright plumage?

It was all another reminder to her that no matter how human these beautiful creatures looked and sometimes behaved, they were not human. Their small heads contained shards of humanity, she thought, floating on a sea of animal drives and instincts: humans sometimes, not other times…

Or maybe she was just being anthropomorphic. Maybe she shouldn’t be comparing the Runners to herself, seeing how human they were, or weren’t; the Runners were simply Runners, and they fit into their world as well as she fit into hers.

Though it was a full hour since they had abandoned the trek for the day, Fire was still wandering around with his hands clasped together. He couldn’t drop his hot burden until the others had gathered kindling and fuel for him, and as long as the sun was up and the air was warm they had no interest in doing that — in fact it didn’t even seem to occur to them — and so Fire was stuck.

But he had more than that on his mind. He was vainly pursuing one of the girls, Dig: a real knock-out, Emma thought, with crisp auburn hair, full, high breasts and hips to die for. Poor Fire seemed to have no idea how to get through to her; he just followed her around, holding out his handfuls of ash, and plaintively calling her name. “Dig! Dig!”

Being the fire-carrier was obviously a key job, a cornerstone of this untidy little community. But as far as Emma could see his role didn’t win Fire much respect from the other Runners, especially the men. Each night he would deliver his embers to the latest heap of kindling, and then would be pushed and slapped away. It was as if he was the runt of the litter. Certainly his handful of ashes just didn’t get him the girls the way the hand-axes of the other boys and men did.