‘Humanity is a despicable mass, Herr Zoruk, and ill-suited to the compassion of romantics. Sometimes it requires culling.’ ‘Oh?’ said Zoruk. He sounded worn out and depressed. ‘And who would choose who lives and who dies?’ I would, ideally, thought Cabal. I’d make a more informed job of it than most. But instead he said, ‘Who indeed, Herr Zoruk?’ and took his leave.
