"Try?" Defoe allowed himself to look surprised. "As you wish. I think you will learn something from watching me handle it, Thomas. Shall we join Signore Zorchi now?" "He's _here_?" Defoe said impatiently, "Of course, Thomas. Come along." * * * * * Zorchi's secretary was there, too. He was in a small anteroom, sitting on a hard wooden chair; as we passed him, I saw the hostility in his eyes. He didn't say a word. Beyond him, in an examination room, was Zorchi, slim, naked and hideous, sitting on the edge of a surgical cot and trying not to look ill at ease. He had been shaved from head to knee stumps. Esthetically, at least, it had been a mistake. I never saw such a collection of skin eruptions on a human. He burst out, faster than my language-school Italian could follow, in a stream of argument and abuse. Defoe listened icily for a moment, then shut him up in Italian as good as his own. "Answer questions; otherwise keep quiet. I will not warn you again." I 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 expediter-captain from the main gate. He says--"