“You have to believe it,” I told him. “Because it’s so.”
Wang sat back, and so did the other three. They stopped looking at me.
“Haven’t you ever heard it said,” I pleaded with them, “that the germ plasm is more essentially the individual than any other part of him? That some whimsical biologists take the attitude that our human bodies and all bodies are merely vehicles, or hosts, by means of which our germ plasm reproduces itself? It’s the most complex biotechnical riddle we have! Believe me, men,” I added passionately, “when I say that biology has not yet solved the germ-plasm problem, I’m telling the truth. I know.”
That got them.
“Look,” I said. “We have one thing in common with the Eoti whom we’re fighting. Insects and warm-blooded animals differ prodigiously. But only among the community-building insects and the community-building men are there individuals who, while taking no part personally in the reproductive chain, are of fundamental importance to their species. For example, you might have a female nursery school teacher who is barren but who is of unquestionable value in shaping the personalities and even physiques of children in her care.”
“Fourth Orientation Lecture for Soldier Surrogates,” Weinstein said in a dry voice. “He got it right out of the book.”
“I’ve been wounded,” I said, “I’ve been seriously wounded fifteen times.” I stood before them and began rolling up my right sleeve. It was soaked with my perspiration.
“We can tell you’ve been wounded, Commander,” Lamehd pointed out uncertainly. “We can tell from your medals. You don’t have to—”
“And every time I was wounded, they repaired me good as new. Better. Look at that arm.” I flexed it for them. “Before it was burned off in a small razzle six years ago, I could never build up a muscle that big. It’s a better arm they built on the stump, and, believe me, my reflexes never had it so good.”
“What did you mean,” Wang Hsi started to ask me, “when you said before—”