"We're not human. We're not—orthodox." Manny was watching him closely as he spoke.
"Not human? They feed us Bach and Brahms and Beethoven and Shakespeare and Voltaire in our incubation period, don't they? And all the others I've forced myself to forget. Does this—this soul come from somewhere outside the system?"
"I guess it does. They don't feed us much religion, but I guess it comes from God."
"And what's He like?"
"It would depend upon who you ask, I guess," Manny said. "Sort of a superman. From Him they get their charity and tolerance and justice and all the rest of their noble attributes." Manny's laugh was bitter. "How they love themselves."
"They're so sure about everything else," Alix said, "but not very sure of their God. Is that it?"
"That's about it. I heard one man say He watches when a sparrow falls. I guess we're less than the sparrows, Alix."
There was a silence, and then Manny put a hand on Alix's shoulder. "We've got about fifteen minutes, and I've got a million things to say. Maybe I should have said them earlier."
Alix turned at the gravity of Manny's voice. His lumagel eyes went over Manny's dark face, absorbing his rigid intensity. Whatever it was that was coming, it was more important than the fight.
Manny said quietly, "Win this one, and blood will run in the streets, Alix."