by Ayn Rand
"Why do you think they think?" said Dr. Ferris softly. "Reason is the scientist's only weapon--and reason has no power over men, has it? At a time like ours, with the country falling apart, with the mob driven by blind desperation to the edge of open riots and violence--order must be maintained by any means available. What can we do when we have to deal with people?"
Dr. Stadler did not answer.
A fat, jellied woman, with an inadequate brassiere under a dark, perspiration-stained dress, was saying into the microphone--Dr. Stadler could not believe it at first--that the new invention was to be greeted with particular gratitude by the mothers of the country.
Dr. Stadler turned away; watching him, Ferris could see nothing but the noble line of the high forehead and the deep cut of bitterness at the corner of the mouth.
Suddenly, without context or warning, Robert Stadler whirled to face him. It was like a spurt of blood from a sudden crack in a wound that had almost closed: Stadler's face was open, open in pain, in horror, in sincerity, as if, for that moment, both he and Ferris were human beings, while he moaned with incredulous despair:
"In a civilized century, Ferris, in a civilized century!"
Dr. Ferris took his time to produce and prolong a soft chuckle. "I don't know what you're talking about," he answered in the tone of a quotation.
Dr. Stadler lowered his eyes.
When Ferris spoke again, his voice had the faintest edge of a tone which Stadler could not define, except that it did not belong in any civilized discussion: "It would be unfortunate if anything were to happen to jeopardize the State Science Institute. It would be most unfortunate if the Institute were to be closed--or if any one of us were to be forced to leave it. Where would we go? Scientists are an inordinate luxury these days--and there aren't many people or establishments left who're able to afford necessities, let alone luxuries. There are no doors left open to us. We wouldn't be welcome in the research department of an industrial concern, such as--let us say--Rearden Steel. Besides, if we should happen to make enemies, the same enemies would be feared by any person tempted to employ our talents. A man like Rearden would have fought for us. Would a man like Orren Boyle? But this is purely theoretical speculation, because, as a matter of practical fact, all private establishments of scientific research have been closed by law--by Directive 10-289, issued, as you might not realize, by Mr. Wesley Mouch. Are you thinking, perhaps, of universities? They are in the same position. They can't afford to make enemies. Who would speak up for us? I believe that some such man as Hugh Akston would have come to our defense--but to think of that is to be guilty of an anachronism. He belonged to a different age. The conditions set up in our social and economic reality have long since made his continued existence impossible. And I don't think that Dr. Simon Pritchett, or the generation reared under his guidance, would be able or willing to defend us. I have never believed in the efficacy of idealists--have you?--and this is no age for impractical idealism. If anyone wished to oppose a government policy, how would he make himself heard? Through these gentlemen of the press, Dr. Stadler? Through this microphone? Is there an independent newspaper left in the country? An uncontrolled radio station? A private piece of property, for that matter--or a personal opinion?" The tone of the voice was obvious now: it was the tone of a thug. "A personal opinion is the one luxury that nobody can afford today."
Dr. Stadler's lips moved stiffly, as stiffly as the muscles of the goats. "You are speaking to Robert Stadler."
"I have not forgotten that. It is precisely because I have not forgotten it that I am speaking. .'Robert Stadler' is an illustrious name, which I would hate to see destroyed. But what is an illustrious name nowadays? In whose eyes?" His arm swept over the grandstands. "In the eyes of people such as you see around you? If they will believe, when so told, that an instrument of death is a tool of prosperity--would they not believe it if they were told that Robert Stadler is a traitor and an enemy of the State? Would you then rely on the fact that this is not true? Are you thinking of truth, Dr. Stadler? Questions of truth do not enter into social issues. Principles have no influence on public affairs. Reason has no power over human beings. Logic is impotent. Morality is superfluous. Do not answer me now, Dr. Stadler. You will answer me over the microphone. You're the next speaker."
Looking off at the dark strip of the farm in the distance, Dr. Stadler knew that what he felt was terror, but he would not permit himself to know its nature. He, who had been able to study the particles and sub-particles of cosmic space, would not permit himself to examine his feeling and to know that it was made of three parts: one part was terror of a vision that seemed to stand before his eyes, the vision of the inscription cut, in his honor, over the door of the Institute: "To the fearless mind, to the inviolate truth"--another part was a plain, brute, animal fear of physical destruction, a humiliating fear which, in the civilized world of his youth, he had not expected ever to experience--and the third was the terror of the knowledge that by betraying the first, one delivers oneself into the realm of the second.
He walked toward the speaker's scaffold, his steps firm and slow, his head lifted, the manuscript of the speech held crumpled in his fingers. It looked like a walk to mount either a pedestal or a guillotine. As the whole of a man's life flashes before him in his dying moment, so he walked to the sound of the announcer's voice reading to the country the list of Robert Stadler's achievements and career. A faint convulsion ran over Robert Stadler's face at the words: "--former head of the Department of Physics of the Patrick Henry University." He knew, distantly, not as if the knowledge were within him, but as if it were within some person he was leaving behind, that the crowd was about to witness an act of destruction more terrible than the destruction of the farm.
He had mounted the first three steps of the scaffold, when a young newsman tore forward, ran to him and, from below, seized the railing to stop him. "Dr. Stadler!" he cried in a desperate whisper. "Tell them the truth! Tell them that you had nothing to do with it! Tell them what sort of infernal machine it is and for what purpose it's intended to be used! Tell the country what sort of people are trying to rule it! Nobody can doubt your word! Tell them the truth! Save us! You're the only one who can!"
Dr. Stadler looked down at him. He was young; his movements and voice had that swift, sharp clarity which belongs to competence; among his aged, corrupt, favor-ridden and pull-created colleagues, he had managed to achieve the rank of elite of the political press, by means and in the role of a last, irresistible spark of ability. His eyes had the look of an eager, unfrightened intelligence; they were the kind of eyes Dr. Stadler had seen looking up at him from the benches of classrooms. He noticed that this boy's eyes were hazel; they had a tinge of green.
Dr. Stadler turned his head and saw that Ferris had come rushing to his side, like a servant or a jailer. "I do not expect to be insulted by disloyal young punks with treasonable motives," said Dr. Stadler loudly.
Dr. Ferris whirled upon the young man and snapped, his face out of control, distorted by rage at the unexpected and unplanned, "Give me your press card and your work permit!"
"I am proud," Dr. Robert Stadler read into the microphone and into the attentive silence of a nation, "that my years of work in the service of science have brought me the honor of placing into the hands of our great leader, Mr. Thompson, a new instrument with an incalculable potential for a civilizing and liberating influence upon the mind of man...."
The sky had the stagnant breath of a furnace and the streets of New York were like pipes running, not with air and light, but with melted dust. Dagny stood on a street corner, where the airport bus had left her, looking at the city in passive astonishment. The buildings seemed worn by weeks of summer heat, but the people seemed worn by centuries of anguish. She stood watching them, disarmed by an enormous sense of unreality.
That sense of unreality had been her only feeling since the early hours of the morning--since the moment when, at the end of an empty highway, she had walked int
o an unknown town and stopped the first passer-by to ask where she was.
"Watsonville," he answered. "What state, please?" she asked. The man glanced at her, said, "Nebraska," and walked hastily away. She smiled mirthlessly, knowing that he wondered where she had come from and that no explanation he could imagine would be as fantastic as the truth. Yet it was Watsonville that seemed fantastic to her, as she walked through its streets to the railroad station. She had lost the habit of observing despair as the normal and dominant aspect of human existence, so normal as to become unnoticed--and the sight of it struck her in all of its senseless futility. She was seeing the brand of pain and fear on the faces of people, and the look of evasion that refuses to know it--they seemed to be going through the motions of some enormous pretense, acting out a ritual to ward off reality, letting the earth remain unseen and their lives unlived, in dread of something namelessly forbidden--yet the forbidden was the simple act of looking at the nature of their pain and questioning their duty to bear it. She was seeing it so clearly that she kept wanting to approach strangers, to shake them, to laugh in their faces and to cry, "Snap out of it!"
There was no reason for people to be as unhappy as that, she thought, no reason whatever ... and then she remembered that reason was the one power they had banished from their existence.
She boarded a Taggart train for the nearest airfield; she did not identify herself to anyone: it seemed irrelevant. She sat at the window of a coach, like a stranger who has to learn the incomprehensible language of those around her. She picked up a discarded newspaper; she managed, with effort, to understand what was written, but not why it should ever have been written: it all seemed so childishly senseless. She stared in astonishment at a paragraph in a syndicated column from New York, which stated overemphatically that Mr. James Taggart wished it to be known that his sister had died in an airplane crash, any unpatriotic rumors to the contrary notwithstanding. Slowly, she remembered Directive 10-289 and realized that Jim was embarrassed by the public suspicion that she had vanished as a deserter.
The wording of the paragraph suggested that her disappearance had been a prominent public issue, not yet dropped. There were other suggestions of it: a mention of Miss Taggart's tragic death, in a story about the growing number of plane crashes--and, on the back page, an ad, offering a $100,000 reward to the person who would find the wreckage of her plane, signed by Henry Rearden.
The last gave her a stab of urgency; the rest seemed meaningless. Then, slowly, she realized that her return was a public event which would be taken as big news. She felt a lethargic weariness at the prospect of a dramatic homecoming, of facing Jim and the press, of witnessing the excitement. She wished they would get it over with in her absence. .
At the airfield, she saw a small-town reporter interviewing some departing officials. She waited till he had finished, then she approached him, extended her credentials and said quietly, to the gaping stare of his eyes, "I'm Dagny Taggart. Would you make it known, please, that I'm alive and that I'll be in New York this afternoon?" The plane was about to take off and she escaped the necessity of answering questions.
She watched the prairies, the rivers, the towns slipping past at an untouchable distance below--and she noted that the sense of detachment one feels when looking at the earth from a plane was the same sense she felt when looking at people: only her distance from people seemed longer.
The passengers were listening to some radio broadcast, which appeared to be important, judging by their earnest attentiveness. She caught brief snatches of fraudulent voices talking about some sort of new invention that was to bring some undefined benefits to some undefined public's welfare. The words were obviously chosen to convey no specific meaning whatever; she wondered how one could pretend that one was hearing a speech; yet that was what the passengers were doing. They were going through the performance of a child who, not yet able to read, holds a book open and spells out anything he wishes to spell, pretending that it is contained in the incomprehensible black lines. But the child, she thought, knows that he is playing a game; these people pretend to themselves that they are not pretending; they know no other state of existence.
The sense of unreality remained as her only feeling, when she landed, when she escaped a crowd of reporters without being seen--by avoiding the taxi stands and leaping into the airport bus--when she rode on the bus, then stood on a street corner, looking at New York. She felt as if she were seeing an abandoned city.
She felt no sense of homecoming, when she entered her apartment; the place seemed to be a convenient machine that she could use for some purpose of no significance whatever.
But she felt a quickened touch of energy, like the first break in a fog -a touch of meaning--when she picked up the telephone receiver and called Rearden's office in Pennsylvania.
"Oh, Miss Taggart ... Miss Taggart!" said, in a joyous moan, the voice of the severe, unemotional Miss Ives.
"Hello, Miss Ives. I haven't startled you, have I? You knew that I was alive?"
"Oh yes! I heard it on the radio this morning."
"Is Mr. Rearden in his office?"
"No, Miss Taggart. He ... he's in the Rocky Mountains, searching for ... that is ..."
"Yes, I know. Do you know where we can reach him?"
"I expect to hear from him at any moment. He's stopping in Los Gatos, Colorado, right now. I phoned him, the moment I heard the news, but he was out and I left a message for him to call me. You see, he's out flying, most of the day ... but he'll call me when he comes back to the hotel."
"What hotel is it?"
"The Eldorado Hotel, in Los Gatos."
"Thank you, Miss Ives." She was about to hang up.
"Oh, Miss Taggart!"
"Yes?"
"What was it that happened to you? Where were you?"
"I ... I'll tell you when I see you. I'm in New York now. When Mr. Rearden calls, tell him please that I'll be in my office."
"Yes, Miss Taggart."
She hung up, but her hand remained on the receiver, clinging to her first contact with a matter that had importance. She looked at her apartment and at the city in the window, feeling reluctant to sink again into the dead fog of the meaningless.
She raised the receiver and called Los Gatos.
"Eldorado Hotel," said a woman's drowsily resentful voice.
"Would you take a message for Mr. Henry Rearden? Ask him, when he comes in, to--"
"Just a minute, please," drawled the voice, in the impatient tone that resents any effort as an imposition.
She heard the clicking of switches, some buzzing, some breaks of silence and then a man's clear, firm voice answering: "Hello?" It was Hank Rearden.
She stared at the receiver as at the muzzle of a gun, feeling trapped, unable to breathe.
"Hello?" he repeated.
"Hank, is that you?"
She heard a low sound, more a sigh than a gasp, and then the long, empty crackling of the wire.
"Hank!" There was no answer. "Hank!" she screamed in terror.
She thought she heard the effort of a breath--then she heard a whisper, which was not a question, but a statement saying everything: "Dagny."
"Hank, I'm sorry--oh, darling, I'm sorry!--didn't you know?"
"Where are you, Dagny?"
"Are you all right?"
"Of course."
"Didn't you know that I was back and ... and alive?"
"No ... I didn't know it."
"Oh God, I'm sorry I called, I--"
"What are you talking about? Dagny, where are you?"
"In New York. Didn't you hear about it on the radio?"
"No. I've just come in."
"Didn't they give you a message to call Miss Ives?"
"No."
"Are you all right?"
"Now?" She heard his soft, low chuckle. She was hearing the sound of unreleased laughter, the sound of youth, growing in his voice with every word. "When did you come back?"
"This morning."
She did not answer at once. "My plane crashed," she said. "In the Rockies. I was picked up by some people who helped me, but I could not send word to anyone."
The laughter went out of his voice. "As bad as that?"
"Oh ... oh, the crash? No, it wasn't bad. I wasn't hurt. Not seriously."
"Then why couldn't you send word?"
"There were no ... no means of communication."
"Why did it take you so long to get back?"
"I ... can't answer that now."
"Dagny, were you in danger?"
The half-smiling, half-bitter tone of her voice was almost regret, as she answered, "No."
"Were you held prisoner?"
"No--not really."
"Then you could have returned sooner, but didn't?"
"That's true--but that's all I can tell you."
"Where were you, Dagny?"
"Do you mind if we don't talk about it now? Let's wait until I see you."
"Of course. I won't ask any questions. Just tell me: are you safe now?"
"Safe? Yes."
"I mean, have you suffered any permanent injuries or consequences?"
She answered, with the same sound of a cheerless smile, "Injuries--no, Hank. I don't know, as to the permanent consequences."
"Will you still be in New York tonight?"
"Why, yes. I'm ... I'm back for good."
"Are you?"
"Why do you ask that?"
"I don't know. I guess I'm too used to what it's like when ... when I can't find you."
"I'm back."
"Yes. I'll see you in a few hours." His voice broke off, as if the sentence were too enormous to believe. "In a few hours," he repeated firmly.