“I don’t know about that,” I blustered. “Why, some of your performance charts—”
“Performance charts, Commander,” Wang Hsi said softly, “do not a human being make.”
On his right, Weinstein gave a nod, thought a bit, and added: “Nor groups of men a race.”
I knew where we were going now. And I wanted to smash my way out of that room, down the elevator, and out of the building before anybody said another word. This is it, I told myself: here we are, boy, here we are. I found myself squirming from corner to corner of the desk; I gave up, got off it, and began walking again.
Wang Hsi wouldn’t let go. I should have known he wouldn’t. “Soldier surrogates,” he went on, squinting as if he were taking a close look at the phrase for the first time. “Soldier surrogates, but not soldiers. We’re not soldiers, because soldiers are men. And we, Commander, are not men.”
There was silence for a moment, then a tremendous blast of sound boiled out of my mouth. “And what makes you think that you’re not men?”
Wang Hsi was looking at me with astonishment, but his reply was still soft and calm. “You know why. You’ve seen our specifications, Commander. We’re not men, real men, because we can’t reproduce ourselves.”
I forced myself to sit down again and carefully placed my shaking hands over my knees.
“We’re as sterile,” I heard Yussuf Lamehd say, “as boiling water.”
“There have been lots of men,” I began, “who have been—”