"That would be a good trick if you could do it," he countered, equably enough. "But listen, you frustrated young murderess. You have already shown yourself to be, basically, a realist in facing physical facts. Why not face mental, intellectual facts in the same spirit?"
"Why, I do, of course. I always do!"
"You do not," he contradicted, sharply. "Males, according to your lights, have two—and only two—attributes. One, they breed. Two, they fight. They fight each other, and everything else, to the death and at the drop of a hat. Right?"
"Right, but—"
"But nothing—let me talk. Why didn't you breed the combativeness out of your males, hundreds of generations ago?"
"They tried it once, but the race began to deteriorate," she admitted.
"Exactly. Your whole set-up is cockeyed—unbalanced. You can think of me only as a male—one to be destroyed on sight, since I am not like one of yours. Yet, when I could kill you and had every reason to do so, I didn't. We can destroy you all, but we won't unless we must. What's the answer?"
"I don't know," she confessed, frankly. Her frenzied desire for killing abated, although her ingrained antipathy and revulsion did not. "In some ways, you do seem to have some of the instincts and qualities of a ... almost of a person."
"I am a person—"
"You are not! Do you think that I am to be misled by the silly coverings you wear?"