"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—"