don’t know if even Defoe could have stopped Zorchi under normal conditions. But there is something about being naked in the presence of fully dressed opponents that saps the will; and I guessed, too, that the shaving had made Zorchi feel nakeder than ever before in his life. I could see why he’d worn a beard and I wished he still had it.
“Dr. Lawton,” said Defoe, “have you completed your examination of the insured?”
A youngish medical officer of the Company said, “Yes, sir. I have the slides and reports right here; they just came up from the laboratory.” He handed a stapled collection of photographic prints and papers to Defoe, who took his own good time to examine them while the rest of us stood and waited.
Defoe finally put the papers down and nodded. “In a word, this bears out our previous discussion.”
Lawton nodded. “If you will observe his legs, you will see that the skin healing is complete; already a blastema has formed and—”
“I know,” Defoe said impatiently. “Signore Zorchi, I regret to say that I have bad news for you.”
Zorchi waved his hand defiantly. “You are the bad news.”
Defoe ignored him. “You have a grave systemic imbalance. There is great danger of serious ill effects.”
“To what?” snarled Zorchi. “The Company’s bank account?”
“No, Zorchi. To your life.” Defoe shook his head. “There are indications of malignancy.”
“Malignancy?” Zorchi looked startled. “What kind? Do you mean cancer?”
“Exactly.” Defoe patted his papers. “You see, Zorchi, healthy human flesh does not grow like a salamander’s tail.”
The phone rang; impeccable in everything, Defoe waited while Dr. Lawton nervously answered it. Lawton said a few short words, listened for a moment and hung up, looking worried.
He said: “The crowd outside is getting rather large. That was the expeditercaptain from the main gate. He says—”
“I presume he has standing orders,” Defoe said. “We need not concern ourselves with that, need we?”
“Well—” The doctor looked unhappy.
“Now, Zorchi,” Defoe went on, dismissing Lawton utterly, “do you enjoy life?” “I despise it!” Zorchi spat to emphasize how much.
“But you cling to it. You would not like to die, would you? Worse still, you would not care to live indefinitely with carcinoma eating you piece by piece.” Zorchi just glowered suspiciously.
“Perhaps we can cure you, however,” Defoe went on reflectively. “It is by no means certain. I don’t want to raise false hopes. But there is the possibility—”
“The possibility that you will cure me of collecting on my policies, eh?” Zorchi demanded belligerently. “You are crazy, Defoe. Never!”
Defoe looked at him for a thoughtful moment. To Lawton, he said: “Have you this man’s claim warranty? It has the usual application for medical treatment, I presume?” He nodded as Lawton confirmed it. “You see, Mr. Zorchi? As a matter of routine, no claim can be paid unless the policyholder submits to our medical care. You signed the usual form, so—”
“One moment! You people never put me through this before! Did you change the contract on me?”
“No, Signore Zorchi. The same contract, but this time we will enforce it. I think I should warn you of something, though.”
He riffled through the papers and found a photographic print to show Zorchi. “This picture isn’t you, Signore. It is a picture of a newt. The doctor will explain it to you.”
The print was an eight-by-ten glossy of a little lizard with something odd about its legs. Puzzled, Zorchi held it as though the lizard were alive and venomous. But as the doctor spoke, the puzzlement turned into horror and fury.
“What Mr. Defoe means,” said Lawton, “is that totipotency—that is, the ability to regenerate lost tissues, as you can, even when entire members are involved—is full of unanswered riddles. We have found, for instance, that X-ray treatment on your leg helps a new leg to form rapidly, just as it does on the leg of the salamanders. The radiation appears to stimulate the formation of the blastema, which—well, never mind the technical part. It speeds things up.”
His eyes gleamed with scientific interest. “But we tried the experiment of irradiating limbs that had not been severed. It worked the same way, oddly enough. New limbs were generated even though the old ones were still there. That’s why the salamander in the photo has four hands on one of its limbs—nine legs altogether, counting that half-formed one just beside the tail. Curious-looking little beast, isn’t it?”
Defoe cleared his throat. “I only mention, Signore, that the standard treatment for malignancy is X-radiation.”
Zorchi’s eyes flamed—rage battling it out with terror. He said shrilly, “But you can’t make a laboratory animal out of me! I’m a policyholder!”
“Nature did it, Signore Zorchi, not us,” Defoe said.
Zorchi’s eyes rolled up in his head and closed; for a moment, I thought he had fainted and leaped forward to catch him rather than let his legless body crash to the floor. But he hadn’t fainted. He was muttering, half aloud, sick with fear, “For the love of Mary, Defoe! Please, please, I beg you! Please!”
It was too much for me. I said, shaking with rage, “Mr. Defoe, you can’t force this man to undergo experimental radiation that might make a monster out of him! I insist that you reconsider!”
Defoe threw his head back. “What, Thomas?” he snapped.
I said firmly, “He has no one here to advise him—I’ll take the job. Zorchi, listen to me! You’ve signed the treatment application and he’s right enough about that— you can’t get out of it. But you don’t have to take this treatment! Every policyholder has the right to refuse any new and unguaranteed course of treatment, no matter what the circumstances. All you’ve got to do is agree to go into suspension in the va—in the clinic here, pending such time as your condition can be infallibly cured. Do it, man! Don’t let them make you a freak—demand suspension! What have you got to lose?”
I never saw a man go so to pieces as Zorchi, when he realized how nearly Defoe had trapped him into becoming a guinea pig. Whimpering thanks to me, he hastily signed the optional agreement for suspended animation and, as quickly as I could, I left him there.
Defoe followed me. We passed the secretary in the anteroom while Dr. Lawton was explaining the circumstances to him; the man was stricken with astonishment, almost too paralyzed to sign the witnessing form Defoe had insisted on. I knew the form well—I had been about to sign one for Marianna when, at the last moment, she decided against the vaults in favor of the experimental therapy that hadn’t worked.
Outside in the hall, Defoe stopped and confronted me. I braced myself for the blast to end all blasts.
I could hardly believe my eyes. The great stone face was smiling!
“Thomas,” he said inexplicably, “that was masterful. I couldn’t have done better myself.”
Chapter Seven
We walked silently through the huge central waiting room of the clinic.
There should have been scores of relatives of suspendees milling around, seeking information—there was, I knew, still a steady shipment of suspendees coming in from the local hospitals; I had seen it myself. But there were hardly more than a dozen or so persons in sight, with a single clerk checking their forms and answering their questions.
It was too quiet. Defoe thought so, too; I saw his frown.
Now that I had had a few moments to catch my breath, I