I said in irritation, "You're infuriating, Zorchi. I suppose you know that. I never claimed any credit for helping you out of the clinic. As a matter of fact, I don't think I ever mentioned it. Everyone assumed that I had just happened to bring you along--no one questioned it." He flared, "You let them _assume_, Weels? You let them assume that Zorchi was as helpless a side of pork as those other dead ones--you let them guess that you stuck me with a needle, so that it would seem how brave you were? Is it not true that I had revived by myself, Weels?" I felt myself growing angry. "Of course! But I just didn't see any reason to--" "To divide the credit, is that it, Weels? No, say no more; I have closed the subject. However, I point out that there is a difference between the rescue of a helpless hulk and the mere casual assistance one may be invited to give to a Zorchi." I let it go at that. There was no point in arguing with that man, ever. So I left the room--ostensibly to look in on Benedetto, actually to cool off a little. Benedetto seemed fine--that is, the dressings were still in place, he had not moved, his breath and pulse were slow and regular. I took my time before I went back to the room where Zorchi still sat waiting. He had taken advantage of the time to improve his mind. The man's curiosity was insatiable; the more he denied it, the more it stuck out all over him. He had thrown the Handbook on the floor when I gave it to him, but as soon as I was out of sight he was leafing through it. He had it open on his lap, face down, as he faced me. "Weels." There was, for once, no sardonic rasp to his voice. And his face, I saw, was bone-white. "Weels, permit me to be sure I understand you. It is your belief that this intelligent plan of seeding the world with poison to make it well will succeed, because you believe that a Signore Carmody will evict Defoe from power?" I said, "Well, not exactly--" "But almost exactly? That is, you require this Millen Carmody for your plan?" "It wasn't _my_ plan. But you're right about the other." "Very good." He extended the Handbook to me. "There is here a picture which calls itself Millen Carmody. Is that the man?" I glanced at the familiar warm eyes on the frontispiece. "That's right. Have you seen him?" "I have, indeed." The shaggy beard was twitching--I did not know whether with laughter or the coming of tears. "I saw him not long ago, Weels. It was in what they call Bay 100--you remember? He was in a little bag like the pasta one carries home from a store. He was quite sound asleep, Weels, in the shelf just below the one I woke up in." XV So now at last I knew why Millen Carmody had permitted Defoe to turn the Company into a prison cell for the world. He couldn't forbid it, because the dead can forbid nothing, and Carmody was sleeping with the dead. No wonder Defoe was so concerned with the Naples sector!