Atlas Shrugged

by Ayn Rand

  "Do you wish to disobey Mr. Thompson?"

  "Oh, no, ma.'am! But ... but if Dr. Ferris said to let nobody in, that means nobody--" He added uncertainly and pleadingly, "--doesn't it?"

  "Do you know that I am Dagny Taggart and that you've seen my pictures in the papers with Mr. Thompson and all the top leaders of the country?"

  "Yes, ma.'am."

  "Then decide whether you wish to disobey their orders."

  "Oh, no, ma'am! I don'.t!"

  "Then let me in."

  "But I can't disobey Dr. Ferris, either!"

  "Then choose."

  "But I can't choose, ma.'am! Who am I to choose?"

  "You'll have to."

  "Look," he said hastily, pulling a key from his pocket and turning to the door, "I'll ask the chief. He--"

  "No," she said.

  Some quality in the tone of her voice made him whirl back to her: she was holding a gun pointed levelly at his heart.

  "Listen carefully," she said. "Either you let me in or I shoot you. You may try to shoot me first, if you can. You have that choice--and no other. Now decide."

  His mouth fell open and the key dropped from his hand.

  "Get out of my way," she said.

  He shook his head frantically, pressing his back against the door. "Oh Christ, ma.'am!" he gulped in the whine of a desperate plea. "I can't shoot at you, seeing as you come from Mr. Thompson! And I can't let you in against the word of Dr. Ferris! What am I to do? I'm only a little fellow! I'm only obeying orders! It's not up to me!"

  "It's your life," she said.

  "If you let me ask the chief, he'll tell me, he.'ll--"

  "I won't let you ask anyone."

  "But how do I know that you really have an order from Mr. Thompson?"

  "You don't. Maybe I haven't. Maybe I'm acting on my own--and you'll be punished for obeying me. Maybe I have--and you'll be thrown in jail for disobeying. Maybe Dr. Ferris and Mr. Thompson agree about this. Maybe they don.'t--and you have to defy one or the other. These are the things you have to decide. There is no one to ask, no one to call, no one to tell you. You will have to decide them yourself."

  "But I can't decide! Why me?"

  "Because it's your body that's barring my way."

  "But I can't decide! I'm not supposed to decide!"

  "I'll count to three," she said. "Then I'll shoot."

  "Wait! Wait! I haven't said yes or no!" he cried, cringing tighter against the door, as if immobility of mind and body were his best protection.

  "One--" she counted; she could see his eyes staring at her in terror --"Two--" she could see that the gun held less terror for him than the alternative she offered--"Three."

  Calmly and impersonally, she, who would have hesitated to fire at an animal, pulled the trigger and fired straight at the heart of a man who had wanted to exist without the responsibility of consciousness.

  Her gun was equipped with a silencer; there was no sound to attract anyone's attention, only the thud of a body falling at her feet.

  She picked up the key from the ground--then waited for a few brief moments, as had been agreed upon.

  Francisco was first to join her, coming from behind a corner of the building, then Hank Rearden, then Ragnar Danneskjold. There had been four guards posted at intervals among the trees, around the building. They were now disposed of: one was dead, three were left in the brush, bound and gagged.

  She handed the key to Francisco without a word. He unlocked the door and went in, alone, leaving the door open to the width of an inch. The three others waited outside, by that opening.

  The hall was lighted by a single naked bulb stuck in the middle of the ceiling. A guard stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the second .floor.

  "Who are you?" he cried at the sight of Francisco entering as if he owned the place. "Nobody's supposed to come in here tonight!"

  "I did," said Francisco.

  "Why did Rusty let you in?"

  "He must have had his reasons."

  "He wasn't supposed to!"

  "Somebody has changed your suppositions." Francisco's eyes were taking a lightning inventory of the place. A second guard stood on the landing at the turn of the stairs, looking down at them and listening.

  "What's your business?"

  "Copper-mining."

  "Huh? I mean, who are you?"

  "The name's too long to tell you. I'll tell it to your chief. Where is he?"

  "I'm asking the questions!" But he backed a step away. "Don't ... don't you act like a big shot or I.'ll--"

  "Hey, Pete, he is!" cried the second guard, paralyzed by Francisco's .manner.

  The first one was struggling to ignore it; his voice grew louder with the growth of his fear, as he snapped at Francisco, "What are you after?"

  "I said I'll tell it to your chief. Where is he?"

  "I'm asking the questions!"

  "I'm not answering them."

  "Oh, you're not, are you?" snarled Pete, who had but one recourse when in doubt: his hand jerked to the gun on his hip.

  Francisco's hand was too fast for the two men to see its motion, and his gun was too silent. What they saw and heard next was the gun flying out of Pete's hand, along with a splatter of blood from his shattered fingers, and his muffled howl of pain. He collapsed, groaning. In the instant when the second guard grasped it, he saw that Francisco's gun was aimed at him.

  "Don't shoot, mister!" he cried.

  "Come down here with your hands up," ordered Francisco, holding his gun aimed with one hand and waving a signal to the crack of the door with the other.

  By the time the guard descended the stairs, Rearden was there to disarm him, and Danneskjold to tie his hands and feet. The sight of Dagny seemed to frighten him more than the rest; he could not understand it: the three men wore caps and windbreakers, and, but for their manner, could be taken for a gang of highwaymen; the presence of a lady was inexplicable.

  "Now," said Francisco, "where is your chief?"

  The guard jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. "Up there."

  "How many guards are there in the building?"

  "Nine."

  "Where are they?"

  "One's on the cellar stairs. The others are all up there."

  "Where?"

  "In the big laboratory. The one with the window."

  "All of them?"

  "Yes."

  "What are these rooms?" He pointed at the doors leading off the hall.

  "They're labs, too. They're locked for the night."

  "Who's got the key?"

  "Him." He jerked his head at Pete.

  Rearden and Danneskjold took the key from Pete's pocket and hurried soundlessly to check the rooms, while Francisco continued, "Are there any other men in the building?"

  "No."

  "Isn't there a prisoner here?"

  "Oh ... yeah, I guess so. There must be, or they wouldn.'t've kept us all on duty."

  "Is he still here?"

  "That, I don't know. They'd never tell us."

  "Is Dr. Ferris here?"

  "No. He left ten-fifteen minutes ago."

  "Now, that laboratory upstairs--does it open right on the stair landing?"

  "Yes."

  "How many doors are there?"

  "Three. It's the one in the middle."

  "What are the other rooms?"

  "There's the small laboratory on one side and Dr. Ferris' office on the other."

  "Are there connecting doors between them?"

  ."Yes."

  Francisco was turning to his companions, when the guard said pleadingly, "Mister, can I ask you a question?"

  "Go ahead."

  "Who are you?"

  He answered in the solemn tone of a drawing-room introduction, "Francisco Domingo Carlos Andres Sebastian d.'Anconia."

  He left the guard gaping at him and turned to a brief, whispered consultation with his companions.

  In a moment, it was Rearden who went up the stairs--swiftly, sound
lessly and alone.

  Cages containing rats and guinea pigs were stacked against the walls of the laboratory; they had been put there by the guards who were playing poker on the long laboratory table in the center. Six of them were playing; two were standing in opposite corners, watching the entrance door, guns in hand. It was Rearden's face that saved him from being shot on sight when he entered: his face was too well known to them and too unexpected. He saw eight heads staring at him with recognition and with inability to believe what they were recognizing.

  He stood at the door, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, with the casual, confident manner of a business executive.

  "Who is in charge here?" he asked in the politely abrupt voice of a man who does not waste time.

  "You ... you're not ..." stammered a lanky, surly individual at the card table.

  "I'm Hank Rearden. Are you the chief?"

  "Yeah! But where in blazes do you come from?"

  "From New York."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Then, I take it, you have not been notified."

  "Should I have ... I mean, about what?" The swift, touchy, resentful suspicion that his superiors had slighted his authority, was obvious in the chief's voice. He was a tall, emaciated man, with jerky movements, a sallow face and the restless, unfocused eyes of a drug addict.

  "About my business here."

  "You ... you can't have any business here," he snapped, torn between the fear of a bluff and the fear of having been left out of some important, top-level decision. "Aren't you a traitor and a deserter and a--"

  "I see that you're behind the times, my good man."

  The seven others in the room were staring at Rearden with an awed, superstitious uncertainty. The two who held guns still held them aimed at him in the impassive manner of automatons. He did not seem to take notice of them.

  "What is it you say is your business here?" snapped the chief.

  "I am here to take charge of the prisoner whom you are to deliver to me."

  "If you came from headquarters, you'd know that I'm not supposed to know anything about any prisoner--and that nobody is to touch him!"

  "Except me."

  The chief leaped to his feet, darted to a telephone and seized the receiver. He had not raised it halfway to his ear when he dropped it abruptly with a gesture that sent a vibration of panic through the room: he had had time to hear that the telephone was dead and to know that the wires were cut.

  His look of accusation, as he whirled to Rearden, broke against the faintly contemptuous reproof of Rearden's voice: "That's no way to guard a building--if this is what you allowed to happen. Better let me have the prisoner, before anything happens to him--if you don't want me to report you for negligence, as well as insubordination."

  The chief dropped heavily back on his chair, slumped forward across the table and looked up at Rearden with a glance that made his emaciated face resemble the animals that were beginning to stir in the cages.

  "Who is the prisoner?" he asked.

  "My good man," said Rearden, "if your immediate superiors did not see fit to tell you, I certainly will not."

  "They didn't see fit to tell me about your coming here, either!" yelled the chief, his voice confessing the helplessness of anger and broadcasting the vibrations of impotence to his men. "How do I know you're on the level? With the phone out of order, who's going to tell me? How am I to know what to do?"

  "That's your problem, not mine."

  "I don't believe you!" His cry was too shrill to project conviction. "I don't believe that the government would send you on a mission, when you're one of those vanishing traitors and friends of John Galt who--"

  "But haven't you heard?"

  "What?"

  "John Galt has made a deal with the government and has brought us all back."

  "Oh, thank God!" cried one of the guards, the youngest.

  "Shut your mouth! You're not to have any political opinions!" snapped the chief, and jerked back to Rearden. "Why hasn't it been announced on the radio?"

  "Do you presume to hold opinions on when and how the government should choose to announce its policies?"

  In the long moment of silence, they could hear the rustle of the animals clawing at the bars of their cages.

  "I think I should remind you," said Rearden, "that your job is not to question orders, but to obey them, that you are not to know or understand the policies of your superiors, that you are not to judge, to choose or to doubt."

  "But I don't know whether I'm supposed to obey you!"

  "If you refuse, you'll take the consequences."

  .Crouching against the table, the chief moved his glance slowly, ap praisingly, from Rearden's face to the two gunmen in the corners. The gunmen steadied their aim by an almost imperceptible movement. A nervous rustle went through the room. An animal squeaked shrilly in one of the cages.

  "I think I should also tell you," said Rearden, his voice faintly harder, "that I am not alone. My friends are waiting outside."

  "Where?"

  "All around this room."

  "How many?"

  "You'll find out--one way or the other."

  "Say, Chief," moaned a shaky voice from among the guards, "we don't want to tangle with those people, they.'re--"

  "Shut up!" roared the chief, leaping to his feet and brandishing his gun in the direction of the speaker. "You're not going to turn yellow on me, any of you bastards!" He was screaming to ward off the knowledge that they had. He was swaying on the edge of panic, fighting against the realization that something somehow had disarmed his men. "There's nothing to be scared of!" He was screaming it to himself, struggling to recapture the safety of his only sphere: the sphere of violence. "Nothing and nobody! I'll show you!" He whirled around, his hand shaking at the end of his sweeping arm, and fired at Rearden.

  Some of them saw Rearden sway, his right hand gripping his left shoulder. Others, in the same instant, saw the gun drop out of the chief's hand and hit the floor in time with his scream and with the .spurt of blood from his wrist. Then all of them saw Francisco d.'An conia standing at the door on the left, his soundless gun still aimed at the chief.

  All of them were on their feet and had drawn their guns, but they lost that first moment, not daring to fire.

  "I wouldn.'t, if I were you," said Francisco.

  "Jesus!" gasped one of the guards, struggling for the memory of a name he could not recapture. "That's ... that's the guy who blew up all the copper mines in the world!"

  "It is," said Rearden.

  They had been backing involuntarily away from Francisco--and turned to see that Rearden still stood at the entrance door, with a pointed gun in his right hand and a dark stain spreading on his left shoulder.

  "Shoot, you bastards!" screamed the chief to the wavering men. "What are you waiting for? Shoot them down!" He was leaning with one arm against the table, blood running out of the other. "I'll report any man who doesn't fight! I'll have him sentenced to death for it!"

  "Drop your guns," said Rearden.

  The seven guards stood frozen for an instant, obeying neither.

  "Let me out of here!" screamed the youngest, dashing for the door on the right.

  He threw the door open and sprang back: Dagny Taggart stood on the threshold, gun in hand.

  The guards were drawing slowly to the center of the room, fighting an invisible battle in the fog of their minds, disarmed by a sense of unreality in the presence of the legendary figures they had never expected to see, feeling almost as if they were ordered to fire at ghosts.

  "Drop your guns," said Rearden. "You don't know why you're here. We do. You don't know who your prisoner is. We do. You don't know why your bosses want you to guard him. We know why we want to get him out. You don't know the purpose of your fight. We know the purpose of ours. If you die, you won't know what you're dying for. If we do, we will."

  "Don't ... don't listen to him!" snarled the chief. "Shoot! I order you to shoot!"
/>
  One of the guards looked at the chief, dropped his gun and, raising his arms, backed away from the group toward Rearden.

  "God damn you!" yelled the chief, seized a gun with his left hand and fired at the deserter.

  In time with the fall of the man's body, the window burst into a shower of glass--and from the limb of a tree, as from a catapult, the tall, slender figure of a man flew into the room, landed on its feet and fired at the first guard in reach.

  "Who are you?" screamed some terror-blinded voice.

  "Ragnar Danneskjold."

  Three sounds answered him: a long, swelling moan of panic--the clatter of four guns dropped to the floor--and the bark of the fifth, fired by a guard at the forehead of the chief.

  By the time the four survivors of the garrison began to reassemble the pieces of their consciousness, their figures were stretched on the floor, bound and gagged; the fifth one was left standing, his hands tied behind his back.

  "Where is the prisoner?" Francisco asked him.

  "In the cellar ... I guess."

  "Who has the key?"

  "Dr. Ferris."

  "Where are the stairs to the cellar?"

  "Behind a door in Dr. Ferris' office."

  "Lead the way."

  As they started, Francisco turned to Rearden. "Are you all right, Hank?"

  "Sure."

  "Need to rest?"

  "Hell, no!"

  From the threshold of a door in Ferris' office, they looked down a steep flight of stone stairs and saw a guard on the landing below.

  "Come here with your hands up!" ordered Francisco.

  The guard saw the silhouette of a resolute stranger and the glint of a gun: it was enough. He obeyed immediately; he seemed relieved to escape from the damp stone crypt. He was left tied on the floor of the office, along with the guard who had led them.

  Then the four rescuers were free to fly down the stairs to the locked steel door at the bottom. They had acted and moved with the precision of a controlled discipline. Now, it was as if their inner reins had broken.

  Danneskjold had the tools to smash the lock. Francisco was first to enter the cellar, and his arm barred Dagny's way for the fraction of a second--for the length of a look to make certain that the sight was bearable--then he let her rush past him: beyond the tangle of electric wires, he had seen Galt's lifted head and glance of greeting.

  She fell down on her knees by the side of the mattress. Galt looked up at her, as he had looked on their first morning in the valley, his smile was like the sound of a laughter that had never been touched by pain, his voice was soft and low:

  "We never had to take any of it seriously, did we?"

  Tears running down her face, but her smile declaring a full, confident, radiant certainty, she answered, "No, we never had to."