Chapter 2

The Naples branch of the Company lay in the heart of the city. I took a cab to a sort of dome-roofed thing called a galleria, and walked under its skeletal steel ceiling to my new office. Once the galleria had been roofed with glass, but the glass had powdered down from the concussion of the Mt. Vesuvius bomb, or the Capodichino bomb, or one of the other hammerblows the Sicilians had rained on the principality of Naples in the recent unpleasantness.

I entered the office and looked around. The blonde girl named Susan appeared to double as the office receptionist. She nodded efficiently and waved me to a fenced-off enclosure where Sam Gogarty sat, plump and untroubled, at an enormous desk.

I pushed open the swinging gate.

Gogarty looked at me icily. “You’re late,” he said.

He had no hangover, it was clear. I said apologetically, “Sorry, I’m--”

“Never mind. Just don’t let it happen again.” It was clear that, in the office, business was business; the fact that we had been drinking together the night before would not condone liberties the morning after. Gogarty said, “Your desk is over there, Wills. Better get started.”

I felt considerably deflated as I sat down at my desk and stared unhappily at the piles of blue and yellow manifolds before me.

The Company had trained me well. I didn’t need to be coached in order to get through the work; it was all a matter of following established techniques and precedents. I checked the coverage, reduced the claim to tape-code, fed the tapes into a machine.

If the claim was legitimate, the machine computed the amounts due and issued a punch-card check. If there was anything wrong, the machine flashed a red light and spat the faulty claim out into a hopper.

And there were plenty of claims. Every adult in Naples, of course, carried the conventional War-and-Disaster policy--the so-called Blue Bolt coverage. Since few of them had actually been injured in the war, the claims were small--mostly for cost of premiums on other policies, under the disability clauses. (For if war prevented a policyholder from meeting his Blue Plate premiums, for instance, the Company itself under Blue Bolt would keep his policies paid--and the policyholder fed.)

But there were some big claims, too. The Neapolitan government had carried the conventional Blue Bolt policies and, though the policy had been canceled by the Company before hostilities broke out--thus relieving the Company of the necessity of paying damages to the principality of Naples itself--still there were all the subsidiary loss and damage claims of the Neapolitan government’s bureaus and departments, almost every one of them non-canceling.

It amounted to billions and billions of lire. Just looking at the amounts on some of the vouchers before me made my head swim. And the same, of course, would be true in Sicily. Though that would naturally be handled by the Sicilian office, not by us.

However, the cost of this one brief, meager little war between Naples and Sicily, with less than ten thousand casualties, lasting hardly more than a week, must have set the Company’s reserves back hundreds of millions of dollars.

And to think that some people didn’t like the Company! Why, without it, the whole peninsula of Italy would have been in financial ruin, the solvent areas dragged down with the combatants!

Naturally, the Regional Office was understaffed for this volume of work--which is why they had flown in new Adjusters like myself.

I looked up from my desk, surprised. Susan was standing next to me, an aspirin and a paper cup of water in her hand. “You look like you might need this,” she whispered. She winked and was gone.

I swallowed it gratefully, although my hangover was almost gone. I was finding in these dry papers all the romance and excitement I had joined the Company’s foreign service for. Here before me were human lives, drama, tragedy, even an occasional touch of human-interest comedy.

For the Company was supporting most of Naples and whatever affected a Neapolitan life showed up somehow in the records of the Company.

It was a clean, dedicated feeling to work for the Company. The monks of the Middle Ages might have had something of the same positive conviction that their work in the service of a mighty churchly empire was right and just, but surely no one since.

I attacked the mountain of forms with determination, taking pleasure in the knowledge that every one I processed meant one life helped by the Company.

It was plain in history, for all to see. Once the world had been turbulent and distressed, and the Company had smoothed it out. It had started with fires and disease. When the first primitive insurance companies--there were more than one, in the early days--began offering protection against the hazards of fire, they had found it wise to try to prevent fires. There were the advertising campaigns with their wistful-eyed bears pleading with smokers not to drop their lighted cigarettes in the dry forest; the technical bureaus like the Underwriter’s Laboratory, testing electrical equipment, devising intricate and homely gimmicks like the underwriter’s knot; the Fire Patrol in the big cities that followed up the city-owned Fire Department; the endless educational sessions in the schools ... And fires decreased.

Then there was life insurance. Each time a death benefit was paid, a digit rang up on the actuarial scoreboard. Was tuberculosis a major killer? Establish mobile chest X-rays; alert the people to the meaning of a chronic cough. Was it heart disease? Explain the dangers of overweight, the idiocy of exercise past forty. People lived longer.

Health insurance followed the same pattern. It had begun by paying for bills incurred during sickness, and ended by providing full medical sickness prevention and treatment for all. Elaborate research programs reduced the danger of disease to nearly nothing. Only a few rare cases, like that of Marianna...

I shook myself away from the thought. Anyway, it was neither fire nor health insurance that concerned me now, but the Blue Bolt anti-war complex of the Company’s policies. It was easy enough to see how it had come about. For with fire and accident and disease ameliorated by the strong protecting hand of the Company, only one major hazard remained--war.

And so the Company had logically and inevitably resolved to wipe out war.

I looked up. It was Susan again, this time with a cardboard container of coffee.

“You’re an angel,” I said. She set the coffee down and turned to go. I looked quickly around to make sure that Gogarty was busy, and stopped her. “Tell me something?”

“Sure.”

“About this girl, Rena. Does she work for the Company?”

Susan giggled. “Heavens, no. What an idea!”

“What’s so strange about it?”

She straightened out her face. “You’d better ask Sam--Mr. Gogarty, that is. Didn’t you have a chance to talk to her last night? Or were you too busy with other things?”

“I only want to know how she happened to be with you.”

Susan shrugged. “Sam thought you’d like to meet her, I guess. Really, you’ll have to ask him. All I know is that she’s been in here quite a lot about some claims. But she doesn’t work here, believe me.” She wrinkled her nose in amusement. “And I won’t work here either, if I don’t get back to my desk.”

I took the hint. By lunch time, I had got through a good half of the accumulation on my desk. I ate briefly and not too well at a nearby trattoria with a “B” on the Blue Plate medallion in its window. After the dinner of the night before, I more than half agreed with Gogarty’s comments about the Blue Plate menus.

Gogarty called me over when I got back to the office. He said, “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you about Luigi Zorchi.”

I nodded eagerly. I had been hoping for some explanations.

Gogarty went on, “Since you were on the scene when he took his dive, you might as well follow up. God knows you can’t do worse than the rest of us.”

I said dubiously, “Well, I saw the accident, if that’s what you mean.”

“Accident! What accident? This is the twelfth time he’s done it, I tell you.” He tossed a file folder at me. “Take a look! Loss of limbs--four times. Internal injuries--six times. Loss of vision, impaired hearing, hospitalization and so on--good lord, I can’t count the number of separate claims. And, every one, he has collected on. Go ahead, look it over.”

I peered at the folder. The top sheet was a field report on the incident I had watched, when the locomotive of the Milan express had severed both legs. The one below it, dated five weeks earlier, was for flash burns suffered in the explosion of a stove, causing the loss of the right forearm nearly to the elbow.

Curious, I thought, I hadn’t noticed anything when I saw the man on the platform. Still, I hadn’t paid too much attention to him at first, and modern prosthetic devices were nearly miraculous. I riffled through the red-bordered sheets. The fifth claim down, nearly two years before, was--

I yelped, “Mr. Gogarty! This is a fraud!”

“What?”

“Look at this! ‘On 21st October, the insured suffered severe injuries while trapped in a rising elevator with faulty safety equipment, resulting in loss of both legs above knees, multiple lacerations of--’ Well, never mind the rest of it. But look at that, Mr. Gogarty! He already lost both legs! He can’t lose them twice, can he?”

Gogarty sat back in his chair, looking at me oddly. “You startled me,” he complained. “Wills, what have I been trying to tell you? That’s the whole point, boy! No, he didn’t lose his legs twice. It was five times!”

I goggled at him. “But--”