Joe Nettleton had dreamed that one up. It had been born in the verbiage of his daily syndicated sports column, nurtured by the fans' clamor, and fanned into reality—by what? Animosity? These robots were coming up in the world, getting too big for their britches. Nick Nolan would show this Alix his place.
Nick was the champ, a man, made in His image. He butted and thumbed and gouged and heeled. His favorite target was the groin. But he was a man. Oh, yes, he was a man. A champion among men.
Manny came in. His real title was Manuel 4307, but robots like to forget the numbers. He was Manny, Alix's manager and number one second. A deft and sharp and able robot, Manny.
He said, "I thought it would be better if we were alone. No fans, especially. And I've had a bellyfull of sports writers."
"Even Joe Nettleton?" Alix asked. "Joe's on our side, isn't he?"
"It's hard to say. Do you ever wonder about him, Alix?"
Alix didn't answer, right away. He knew there were robots who 'passed', went over to the status line and lived as humans. He didn't know how many there were, and he often wondered about them. In every robot brain, there was a remote-controlled circuit breaker. They could be stopped with the throwing of a switch at the personnel center. There was a well-guarded office and a man on duty at that center twenty-four hours of every day.
Now Alix said, "I never thought much about Joe, either way."
"What have you been thinking?" Manny asked.
"I've been thinking," Alix said slowly, "that we fight man's wars and pulverate his garbage and dehydrate his sewerage, but we're not citizens. Why, Manny?"