"I don't know. It's—it's—monstrous, it's—" He shrugged his shoulders and pounded one hand into the palm of the other.
"You're it, Alix. King, god, what you will. For six years, I've built you up—in their papers, in their minds. Clean, quiet, hard working Alix. And humble. Oh, the humility I gave you has made me cry, at times."
Manny said in mild protest, "You didn't have to build that angle much. Alix is humble. Alix is—he's—he's—" And the articulate Manny had no words.
Joe Nettleton's pale face was cynical. He said, "The way you feel is the way they all feel—the black ones out there and the brown ones and the yellow ones."
"They've got their rights," Alix said.
"Have they? Take a look at the first twenty rows, ringside. You'll see what rights they have, word rights, paper rights. But not in the hearts of men. Oh, the grapes of wrath are out there, Alix, beyond the twentieth row. Haven't you any sense of history, of destiny?"
Alix didn't answer.
Manny said, "He's been thinking of God, he tells me."
Joe Nettleton's face was blank. "God? Their God?" He looked at Alix wonderingly. "This Superman they scare us with? You don't eat that malarkey, do you, Alix?"
Alix shrugged, saying nothing.