"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?"