A woman began to pound the guard on Charles' right with her fists, yelling: "What did you do to my husband? You shot my husband!" She meant the man who had fainted; Charles peeled her off the bodyguard. Somehow they got into the lobby, followed by most of the audience. The three bodyguards held them at bay. Charles found he was deaf in his right ear and supposed it was temporary. Least of his worries. Halloran had taken a shot at him. The guard named Weltfisch had intercepted it. The guard named Donnel had shot Halloran down. He said to Donnel: "You know Halloran long?" Donnel, not taking his eyes from the crowd, said: "Couple of years, sir. He was just a guy in the bodyguard pool." "Get me out of here," Orsino said. "To the Syndic Building." In the big black car, he could almost forget the horror; he could hope that time would erase it completely. It wasn't like polo. That shot had been _aimed_. The limousine purred to a halt before the titanic bulk of the Syndic Building, was checked and rolled on into the Unrestricted Entrance. An elevator silently lifted the car and passengers past floors devoted to Alcohol Clerical, Alcohol Research, and Testing, Transport, Collections Audit and Control, Cleaning and Dying, Female Recruitment and Retirement, up, up, up, past sections and sub-sections Charles had never entered, Syndic member though he was, to an automatic stop at a floor whose indicator said: _enforcement and public relations_. It was only 9:45 P.M.; F. W. Taylor would be in and working. Charles said: "Wait here, boys," and muttered the code phrase to the door. It sprang open. F. W. Taylor was dictating, machine-gun fashion, to a mike. He looked dog-tired. His face turned up with a frown as Charles entered and then the frown became a beam of pleasure. "Charles, my boy! Sit down!" He snapped off the machine. "Uncle--" Charles began. "It was so kind of you to drop in. I thought you'd be at the theater." "I was, Uncle, but--" "I'm working on a revision for the next edition of _Organization, Symbolism and Morale_. You'd never guess who inspired it." "I'm sure I wouldn't, Uncle. Uncle--" "Old Thornberry, President of the Chase National. He had the infernal gall to refuse a line of credit to young McGurn. _Bankers!_ You won't believe it, but people used to _beg_ them to take over their property, tie up their incomes, virtually enslave them. People _demanded_ it. The same way they demanded inexpensive liquor, tobacco and consumer goods, clean women and a chance to win a fortune and our ancestors obliged them. Our ancestors were sneered at in their day, you know. They were called criminals when they distributed goods and services at a price people could afford to pay." "Uncle!" "Hush, boy, I know what you're going to say. You can't fool the people forever! When they'd had enough hounding and restriction, they rose in their might.