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
expediter-captain 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.