Atlas Shrugged

by Ayn Rand

Then she saw his eyes move slowly from her face down the length of her body, and she knew the sort of torture he was now choosing to experience, because it was a glance of a nature he could not hide from her. She knew that he was seeing her as she had been at seventeen, he was seeing her with the rival he hated, he was seeing them together as they would be now, a sight he could neither endure nor resist. She saw the protection of control dropping from his face, but he did not care whether he let her see his face alive and naked, because there now was nothing to read in it except an unrevealing violence, some part of which resembled hatred.

  He seized her shoulders, and she felt prepared to accept that he would now kill her or beat her into unconsciousness, and in the moment when she felt certain that he had thought of it, she felt her body thrown against him and his mouth falling on hers, more brutally than the act of a beating would have permitted.

  She found herself, in terror, twisting her body to resist, and, in exultation, twisting her arms around him, holding him, letting her lips bring blood to his, knowing that she had never wanted him as she did in this .moment.

  When he threw her down on the couch, she knew, to the rhythm of the beat of his body, that it was the act of his victory over his rival and of his surrender to him, the act of ownership brought to unendurable violence by the thought of the man whom it was defying, the act of transforming his hatred for the pleasure that man had known into the intensity of his own pleasure, his conquest of that man by means of her body--she felt Francisco's presence through Rearden's mind, she felt as if she were surrendering to both men, to that which she had worshipped in both of them, that which they held in common, that essence of character which had made of her love for each an act of loyalty to both. She knew also that this was his rebellion against the world around them, against its worship of degradation, against the long torment of his wasted days and lightless struggle--this was what he wished to assert and, alone with her in the half-darkness high in space above a city of ruins, to hold as the last of his property.

  Afterwards, they lay still, his face on her shoulder. The reflection of a distant electric sign kept beating in faint flashes on the ceiling above her head.

  He reached for her hand and slipped her fingers under his face to let his mouth rest against her palm for a moment, so gently that she felt his motive more than his touch.

  After a while, she got up, she reached for a cigarette, lighted it, then held it out to him with a slight, questioning lift of her hand; he nodded, still sitting half-stretched on the couch; she placed the cigarette between his lips and lighted another for herself. She felt a great sense of peace between them, and the intimacy of the unimportant gestures underscored the importance of the things they were not saying to each other. Everything was said, she thought--but knew that it waited to be acknowledged.

  She saw his eyes move to the entrance door once in a while and remain on it for long moments, as if he were still seeing the man who had left.

  He said quietly, "He could have beaten me by letting me have the truth, any time he wished. Why didn't he?"

  She shrugged, spreading her hands in a gesture of helpless sadness, because they both knew the answer. She asked, "He did mean a great deal to you, didn't he?"

  "He does."

  The two dots of fire at the tips of their cigarettes had moved slowly to the tips of their fingers, with the small glow of an occasional flare and the soft crumbling of ashes as sole movement in the silence, when the doorbell rang. They knew that it was not the man they wished but could not hope to see return, and she frowned with sudden anger as she went to open the door. It took her a moment to remember that the innocuously courteous figure she saw bowing to her with a standard smile of welcome was the assistant manager of the apartment house.

  "Good evening, Miss Taggart. We're so glad to see you back. I just came on duty and heard that you had returned and wanted to greet you in person."

  "Thank you." She stood at the door, not moving to admit him.

  "I have a letter that came for you about a week ago, Miss Taggart," he said, reaching into his pocket. "It looked as if it might be important, but being marked 'personal,' it was obviously not intended to be sent to your office and, besides, they did not know your address, either--so not knowing where to forward it, I kept it in our safe and I thought I'd deliver it to you in person."

  The envelope he handed to her was marked: Registered--Air Mail -Special Delivery--Personal. The return address said: Quentin Daniels, Utah Institute of Technology, Afton, Utah.

  "Oh ... Thank you."

  The assistant manager noted that her voice went dropping toward a whisper, the polite disguise for a gasp, he noted that she stood looking down at the sender's name much longer than was necessary, so he repeated his good wishes and departed.

  She was tearing the envelope open as she walked toward Rearden, and she stopped in the middle of the room to read the letter. It was typewritten on thin paper--he could see the black rectangles of the paragraphs through the transparent sheets--and he could see her face as she read them.

  He expected it, by the time he saw her come to the end: she leaped to the telephone, he heard the violent whirl of the dial and her voice saying with trembling urgency, "Long-distance, please ... Operator, get me the Utah Institute of Technology at Afton, Utah!"

  He asked, approaching, "What is it?"

  She extended the letter, not looking at him, her eyes fixed on the telephone, as if she could force it to answer.

  The letter said: . Dear Miss Taggart:

  I have fought it out for three weeks, I did not want to do it, I know how this will hit you and I know every argument you could offer me, because I have used them all against myself--but this is to tell you that I am quitting.

  I cannot work under the terms of Directive 10-289--though not for the reason its perpetrators intended. I know that their abolition of all scientific research does not mean a damn to you or me, and that you would want me to continue. But I have to quit, because I do not wish to succeed any longer.

  I do not wish to work in a world that regards me as a slave. I do not wish to be of any value to people. If I succeeded in rebuilding the motor, I would not let you place it in their service. I would not take it upon my conscience that anything produced by my mind should be used to bring them comfort.

  I know that if we succeed, they will be only too eager to expropriate the motor. And for the sake of that prospect, we have to accept the position of criminals, you and I, and live under the threat of being arrested at any moment at their whim. And this is the thing that I cannot take, even were I able to take all the rest: that in order to give them an inestimable benefit, we should be made martyrs to the men who, but for us, could not have conceived of it. I might have forgiven the rest, but when I think of this, I say: May they be damned, I will see them all die of starvation, myself included, rather than forgive them for this or permit it!

  To tell you the full truth, I want to succeed, to solve the secret of the motor, as much as ever. So I shall continue to work on it for my own sole pleasure and for as long as I last. But if I solve it, it will remain my private secret. I will not release it for any commercial use. Therefore, I cannot take your money any longer. Commercialism is supposed to be despicable, so all those people should truly approve of my decision, and I--I'm tired of helping those who despise me.

  I don't know how long I will last or what I will do in the future. For the moment, I intend to remain in my job at this Institute. But if any of its trustees or receivers should remind me that I am now legally forbidden to cease being a janitor, I will quit.

  You had given me my greatest chance and if I am now giving you a painful blow, perhaps I should ask you to forgive me. I think that you love your work as much as I loved mine, so you will know that my decision was not easy to make, but that 1 had to make it.

  It is a strange feeling--writing this letter. I do not intend to die, but I am giving up the world and this feels like the letter of a suicide. So
I want to say that of all the people I have known, you are the only person I regret leaving behind.

  Sincerely yours,

  Quentin Daniels

  When he looked up from the letter, he heard her saying, as he had heard her through the words of the typewritten lines, her voice rising closer to despair each time:

  "Keep ringing, Operator! ... Please keep ringing!"

  "What can you tell him?" he asked. "There are no arguments to offer."

  "I won't have a chance to tell him! He's gone by now. It was a week ago. I'm sure he's gone. They've got him."

  "Who got him?"

  "Yes, Operator, I'll hold the line, keep trying!"

  "What would you tell him if he answered?"

  "I'd beg him to go on taking my money, with no strings attached, no conditions, just so he'll have the means to continue! I'll promise him that if we're still in a looters' world when and if he succeeds, I won't ask him to give me the motor or even to tell me its secret. But if, by that time, we're free--" She stopped.

  "If we're free ..."

  "All I want from him now is that he doesn't give up and vanish, like ... like all those others. I don't want to let them get him. If it's not too late--oh God, I don't want them to get him! ... Yes, Operator, keep ringing!"

  "What good will it do us, even if he continues to work?"

  "That's all I'll beg him to do--just to continue. Maybe we'll never get a chance to use the motor in the future. But I want to know that somewhere in the world there's still a great brain at work on a great attempt--and that we still have a chance at a future.... If that motor is abandoned again, then there's nothing but Starnesville ahead of us."

  "Yes. I know."

  She held the receiver pressed to her ear, her arm stiff with the effort not to tremble. She waited, and he heard, in the silence, the futile clicking of the unanswered call.

  "He's gone," she said. "They got him. A week is much longer than they need. I don't know how they learn when the time is right, but this" -she pointed at the letter--"this was their time and they wouldn't have missed it."

  "Who?"

  "The destroyer's agents."

  "Are you beginning to think that they really exist?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you serious?"

  "I am. I've met one of them."

  "Who?"

  "I'll tell you later. I don't know who their leader is, but I'm going to find out, one of these days. I'm going to find out. I'll be damned if I let them--"

  She broke off on a gasp; he saw the change in her face the moment before he heard the click of a distant receiver being lifted and the sound of a man's voice saying, across the wire, "Hello?"

  "Daniels! Is that you? You're alive? You're still there?"

  "Why, yes. Is this you, Miss Taggart? What's the matter?"

  "I ... I thought you were gone."

  "Oh, I'm sorry, I just heard the phone ringing, I was out in the back lot, gathering carrots."

  "Carrots?" She was laughing with hysterical relief.

  "I have my own vegetable patch out there. Used to be the Institute's parking lot. Are you calling from New York, Miss Taggart?"

  "Yes. I just received your letter. Just now. I ... I had been away."

  "Oh." There was a pause, then he said quietly, "There's really nothing more to be said about it, Miss Taggart."

  "Tell me, are you going away?"

  "No."

  "You're not planning to go?"

  "No. Where?"

  "Do you intend to remain at the Institute?"

  "Yes."

  "For how long? Indefinitely?"

  "Yes--as far as I know."

  "Has anyone approached you?"

  "About what?"

  "About leaving."

  "No. Who?"

  "Listen, Daniels, I won't try to discuss your letter over the phone. But I must speak to you. I'm coming to see you. I'll get there as fast as I can."

  "I don't want you to do that, Miss Taggart. I don't want you to go to such an effort, when it's useless."

  "Give me a chance, won't you? You don't have to promise to change your mind, you don't have to commit yourself to anything--only to give me a hearing. If I want to come, it's my risk, I'm taking it. There are things I want to say to you, I'm asking you only. for the chance to say them."

  "You know that I will always give you that chance, Miss Taggart."

  "I'm leaving for Utah at once. Tonight. But there's one thing I want you to promise me. Will you promise to wait for me? Will you promise to be there when I arrive?"

  "Why ... of course, Miss Taggart. Unless I die or something happens outside my power--but I don't expect it to happen."

  "Unless you die, will you wait for me no matter what happens?"

  ."Of course."

  "Do you give me your word that you'll wait?"

  "Yes, Miss Taggart."

  "Thank you. Good night."

  "Good night, Miss Taggart."

  She pressed the receiver down and picked it up again in the same sweep of her hand and rapidly dialed a number.

  "Eddie? ... Have them hold the Comet for me.... Yes, tonight's Comet. Give orders to have my car attached, then come here, to my place, at once." She glanced at her watch. "It's eight-twelve. I have an hour to make it. I don't think I'll hold them up too long. I'll talk to you while I pack."

  She hung up and turned to Rearden.

  "Tonight?" he said.

  "I have to."

  "I guess so. Don't you have to go to Colorado, anyway?"

  "Yes. I intended to leave tomorrow night. But I think Eddie can manage to take care of my office, and I'd better start now. It takes three days"--she remembered--"it will now take five days to reach Utah. I have to go by train, there are people I have to see on the line--this can't be delayed, either."

  "How long will you stay in Colorado?"

  "Hard to tell."

  "Wire me when you get there, will you? If it looks as if it's going to be long, I'll join you there."

  This was the only expression he could give to the words he had desperately wished to say to her, had waited for, had come here to say, and now wished to pronounce more than ever, but knew that it must not be said tonight.

  She knew, by a faint, solemn stress in the tone of his voice, that this was his acceptance of her confession, his surrender, his forgiveness. She asked, "Can you leave the mills?"

  "It will take me a few days to arrange, but I can."

  He knew what her words were admitting, acknowledging and forgiving him, when she said, "Hank, why don't you meet me in Colorado in a week? If you fly your plane, we'll both get there at the same time. And then we'll come back together."

  "All right ... dearest."

  She dictated a list of instructions, while pacing her bedroom, gathering her clothes, hastily packing a suitcase. Rearden had left; Eddie Willers sat at her dressing table, making notes. He seemed to work in his usual manner of unquestioning efficiency, as if he were not aware of the perfume bottles and powder boxes, as if the dressing table were a desk and the room were only an office.

  "I'll phone you from Chicago, Omaha, Flagstaff and Afton," she said, tossing underwear into the suitcase. "If you need me in between, call any operator along the line, with orders to flag the train."

  "The Comet?" he asked mildly.

  "Hell, yes!--the Comet."

  "Okay."

  "Don't hesitate to call, if you have to."

  "Okay. But I don't think I'll have to."

  "We'll manage. We'll work by long-distance phone, just as we did when we--" She stopped.

  "--when we were building the John Galt Line?" he asked quietly. They glanced at each other, but said nothing else.

  "What's the latest report on the construction crews?" she asked.

  "Everything's under way. I got word, just after you left the office, that the grading gangs have started--out of Laurel, Kansas, and out of Jasper, Oklahoma. The rail is on its way to them from Silver Springs. It will be
all right. The hardest thing to find was--"

  "The men?"

  "Yes. The men to put in charge. We had trouble out West, over the Elgin to Midland stretch. All the men we were counting on are gone. I couldn't find anyone able to assume responsibility, neither on our line nor elsewhere. I even tried to get Dan Conway, but--"

  "Dan Conway?" she asked, stopping.

  "Yes. I did. I tried. Do you remember how he used to have rail laid at the rate of five miles a day, right in that part of the country? Oh, I know he'd have reason to hate our guts, but what does it matter now? I found him--he's living on a ranch out in Arizona. I phoned him myself and I begged him to save us. Just to take charge, for one night, of building five and a half miles of track. Five and a half miles, Dagny, that we're stuck with--and he's the greatest railroad builder living! I told him that I was asking him to do it as a gesture of charity to us, if he would. You know, I think he understood me. He wasn't angry. He sounded sad. But he wouldn't do it. He said one must not try to bring people back out of the grave.... He wished me luck. I think he meant it.... You know, I don't think he's one of those that the destroyer knocked out. I think he just broke by himself."

  "Yes. I know he did."

  Eddie saw the expression on her face and pulled himself up hastily. "Oh, we finally found a man to put in charge at Elgin," he said, forcing his voice to sound confident. "Don't worry, the track will be built long before you get there."

  She glanced at him with the faint suggestion of a smile, thinking of how often she had said these words to him and of the desperate bravery with which he was now trying to tell her: Don't worry. He caught her glance, he understood, and the answering hint of his smile had a touch of embarrassed apology.

  He turned back to his note pad, feeling anger at himself, sensing that he had broken his own unstated commandment: Don't make it harder for her. He should not have told her about Dan Conway, he thought; he should not have said anything to remind them both of the despair they would feel, if they felt. He wondered what was the matter with him: he thought it inexcusable that he should find his discipline slipping just because this was a room, not an office.

  She went on speaking--and he listened, looking down at his pad, making a brief notation once in a while. He did not permit himself to look at her again.

  She threw the door of her closet open, jerked a suit off a hanger and folded it rapidly, while her voice went on with unhurried precision. He did not look up, he was aware of her only by means of sound: the sound of the swift movements and of the measured voice. He knew what was wrong with him, he thought; he did not want her to leave, he did not want to lose her again, after so brief a moment of reunion. But to indulge any personal loneliness, at a time when he knew how desperately the railroad needed her in Colorado, was an act of disloyalty he had never committed before--and he felt a vague, desolate sense of guilt.