So I did what I had been avoiding doing. I looked in the phone book for Rena dell'Angela's number. There was, it developed, a Benedetto dell'Angela at the address she'd given the cab driver; but the phone was disconnected. So I wandered around some more, and then I went to sleep, dreaming about Benedetto dell'Angela. I saw him as a leather-faced, white-bearded and courtly old gentleman. Rena's father, surely. Possibly even her elder brother. Certainly not her husband. It was a dull finish to the first full day of my rich, exciting new life.... * * * * * The "minor administrative difficulties" got major. So I didn't get to see Zorchi the next day, after all. A Junior Adjuster named Hammond--he was easily sixty, but the slow-moving, unenterprising type that would stay junior till the day he died--came white-faced into the office a few minutes after opening and huddled with Gogarty for a quarter of an hour. Then Gogarty called me over. He said, "We're having a spot of trouble. Hammond needs a little help; you're elected. Draw what you need, take a couple of expediters along, report back to me this evening." Hammond and I stopped at the cashier's office to draw three dispatch-cases full of lira-notes. Outside, an armored car was waiting for us, with a full crew of six uniformed expediters. We raced off down the narrow streets with the sirens wailing, climbing the long hill road past the radioactive remains of Capodichino, heading out toward the farmlands. Hammond worriedly filled me in on the way. He had got in early to his branch office that morning, but no earlier than the first of a long line of policyholders. There had, it appeared, been some kind of rumor spread that the Company was running out of money. It was preposterous on the face of it--after all, who _printed_ the money?--but you can't argue with a large group of people and, before the official hour of opening the branch, there were more than a hundred in the knotted line outside the door. Hammond had rushed into the Naples office for help, leaving his staff to do the best they could. He said gloomily, staring out through the view-slits at the farmlands and vineyards we were passing through, "I just hope we still have a branch office. This is a bad spot, Wills. Caserta. It got bombed out, you know; the whole southern end of the town is radioactive. And it has a long history of trouble. Used to be the summer royal seat of the old Italian monarchy; then the Americans used it for a command headquarters in the war Mussolini got into--the first atom war. It's been fought over time and again." I said reasonably, "But don't they know the Company has all the resources in the world?" "Sure they do--when they're thinking. Right now they're not thinking. They've got it in their heads that the Company isn't going to pay off. They're scared. You can't tell them anything. You can't even give them checks--they want cash on the line."