Rena said worriedly, "Dear, you must stay in bed. The doctor said—"
"The doctor," Benedetto said formally, "is a fool. Shall I allow us to die here? Am I an ancient idiot, or am I Benedetto dell'Angela who with Slovetski led twenty thousand men?"
Rena said, "Please! You're sick!"
"Enough." Benedetto wavered, but stood erect. "I have telephoned. I have learned a great deal. The movement—" he leaned against the wall for support—"was not planned by fools. We knew there might be bad days; we do not collapse because a few of us are put out of service by the Company. I have certain emergency numbers to call; I call them. And I find—" he paused dramatically—"that there is news. Slovetski has escaped!"
I said, "That's impossible! Defoe wouldn't let him go!"
"Perhaps Slovetski did not consult him," Benedetto said with dignity. "At any rate, he is free and not far from here. And he is the answer we have sought, you understand."
"How?" I demanded. "What can he do that we can't?"
Benedetto smiled indulgently, though the smile was strained. His wound must have been giving him hell; it had had just enough time to stiffen up. He said, "Leave that to Slovetski, Thomas. It is his métier, not yours. I shall go to him now."
Well, I did what I could; but Benedetto was an iron-necked old man. I forbade him to leave and he laughed at me. I begged him to stay and he thanked me—and refused. Finally I abandoned him to Rena and Zorchi.
Zorchi gave up almost at once. "A majestic man!" he said admiringly, as he rolled into the room where I was waiting, on his little power cart. "One cannot reason with him."