They went out, and there was a clamor, a ring of scribes in the corridor beyond the showers. One of them voiced it for all of them, "What the hell is this, Manny? Joe a cousin, or something. How about a statement?"
Manny looked at them bleakly. "We hope to win, but we're up against a superior being. It's in God's lap."
Cynical men, but they resented the blasphemy—coming from a robot.
Joe said, "And Alix is his prophet. Who's betting what?"
No answer. They stared at Joe, and some wrote down a few words. One of them looked at Alix.
"How about you, Alix? How do you feel?"
Alix, the humble, the new day Uncle Tom, the subservient. Alix lifted his chin and didn't smile. "Confident. I'll win."
"How?" another asked.
"Hitting him harder, and oftener. What's he got but a hook and an iron jaw?"
"Guts," one of them said. "You've got to hand him that, Alix."