“Why were you afraid to ask me?” said Rearden gently.
The boy glanced at him with indignant astonishment, as if the answer were self-evident. “Because after the way I started here and the way I acted and what I’m deputy of, if I come asking you for favors, you ought to kick me in the teeth!”
“You have learned a great deal in the two years you’ve been here.”
“No, I—” He glanced at Rearden, understood, looked away and said woodenly, “Yeah . . . if that’s what you mean.”
“Listen, kid, I’d give you a job this minute and I’d trust you with more than a sweeper’s job, if it were up to me. But have you forgotten the Unification Board? I’m not allowed to hire you and you’re not allowed to quit. Sure, men are quitting all the time, and we’re hiring others under phony names and fancy papers proving that they’ve worked here for years. You know it, and thanks for keeping your mouth shut. But do you think that if I hired you that way, your friends in Washington would miss it?”
The boy shook his head slowly.
“Do you think that if you quit their service to become a sweeper, they wouldn’t understand your reason?”
The boy nodded.
“Would they let you go?”
The boy shook his head. After a moment, he said in a tone of forlorn astonishment, “I hadn’t thought of that at all, Mr. Rearden. I forgot them. I kept thinking of whether you’d want me or not and that the only thing that counted was your decision.”
“I know.”
“And . . . it is the only thing that counts, in fact.”
“Yes, Non-Absolute, in fact.”
The boy’s mouth jerked suddenly into the brief, mirthless twist of a smile. “I guess I’m tied worse than any sucker . . .”
“Yes. There’s nothing you can do now, except apply to the Unification Board for permission to change your job. I’ll support your application, if you want to try—only I don’t think they’ll grant it. I don’t think they’ll let you work for me.”
“No. They won’t.”
“If you maneuver enough and lie enough, they might permit you to transfer to a private job—with some other steel company.”
“No! I don’t want to go anywhere else! I don’t want to leave this place!” He stood looking off at the invisible vapor of rain over the flame of the furnaces. After a while, he said quietly, “I’d better stay put, I guess. I’d better go on being a deputy looter. Besides, if I left, God only knows what sort of bastard they’d saddle you with in my place!”
He turned. “They’re up to something, Mr. Rearden. I don’t know what it is, but they’re getting ready to spring something on you.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. But they’ve been watching every opening here, in the last few weeks, every desertion, and slipping their own gang in. A queer sort of gang, too—real goons, some of them, that I’d swear never stepped inside a steel plant before. I’ve had orders to get as many of ‘our boys’ in as possible. They wouldn’t tell me why. I don’t know what it is they’re planning. I’ve tried to pump them, but they’re acting pretty cagey about it. I don’t think they trust me any more. I’m losing the right touch, I guess. All I know is they’re getting set to pull something here.”
“Thanks for warning me.”
“I’ll try to get the dope on it. I’ll try my damndest to get it in time.” He turned brusquely and started off, but stopped. “Mr. Rearden, if it were up to you, you would have hired me?”
“I would have, gladly and at once.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rearden,” he said, his voice solemn and low, then walked away.
Rearden stood looking after him, seeing, with a tearing smile of pity, what it was that the ex-relativist, the ex-pragmatist, the ex-amoralist was carrying away with him for consolation.
On the afternoon of September 11, a copper wire broke in Minnesota, stopping the belts of a grain elevator at a small country station of Taggart Transcontinental.
A flood of wheat was moving down the highways, the roads, the abandoned trails of the countryside, emptying thousands of acres of farmland upon the fragile dams of the railroad’s stations. It was moving day and night, the first trickles growing into streams, then rivers, then torrents—moving on palsied trucks with coughing, tubercular motors—on wagons pulled by the rusty skeletons of starving horses—on carts pulled by oxen—on the nerves and last energy of men who had lived through two years of disaster for the triumphant reward of this autumn’s giant harvest, men who had patched their trucks and carts with wire, blankets, ropes and sleepless nights, to make them hold together for this one more journey, to carry the grain and collapse at destination, but to give their owners a chance at survival.
Every year, at this season, another movement had gone clicking across the country, drawing freight cars from all corners of the continent to the Minnesota Division of Taggart Transcontinental, the beat of train wheels preceding the creak of the wagons, like an advance echo rigorously planned, ordered and timed to meet the flood. The Minnesota Division drowsed through the year, to come to violent life for the weeks of the harvest; fourteen thousand freight cars had jammed its yards each year; fifteen thousand were expected this time. The first of the wheat trains had started to channel the flood into the hungry flour mills, then bakeries, then stomachs of the nation—but every train, car and storage elevator counted, and there was no minute or inch of space to spare.
Eddie Willers watched Dagny’s face as she went through the cards of her emergency file; he could tell the content of the cards by her expression. “The Terminal,” she said quietly, closing the file. “Phone the Terminal downstairs and have them ship half their stock of wire to Minnesota.” Eddie said nothing and obeyed.
He said nothing, the morning when he put on her desk a telegram from the Taggart office in Washington, informing them of the directive which, due to the critical shortage of copper, ordered government agents to seize all copper mines and operate them as a public utility.
“Well,” she said, dropping the telegram into the wastebasket, “that’s the end of Montana.”
She said nothing when James Taggart announced to her that he was issuing an order to discontinue all dining cars on Taggart trains. “We can’t afford it any longer,” he explained, “we’ve always lost money on those goddamn diners, and when there’s no food to get, when restaurants are closing because they can’t grab hold of a pound of horse meat anywhere, how can railroads be expected to do it? Why in hell should we have to feed the passengers, anyway? They’re lucky if we give them transportation, they’d travel in cattle cars if necessary, let ’em pack their own box lunches, what do we care?—they’ve got no other trains to take!”
The telephone on her desk had become, not a voice of business, but an alarm siren for the desperate appeals of disaster. “Miss Taggart. we have no copper wire!” “Nails, Miss Taggart, plain nails, could you tell somebody to send us a keg of nails?” “Can you find any paint.
Miss Taggart, any sort of waterproof paint anywhere?”
But thirty million dollars of subsidy money from Washington had been plowed into Project Soybean—an enormous acreage in Louisiana, where a harvest of soybeans was ripening, as advocated and organized by Emma Chalmers, for the purpose of reconditioning the dietary habits of the nation. Emma Chalmers, better known as Kip’s Ma, was an old sociologist who had hung about Washington for years, as other women of her age and type hang about barrooms. For some reason which nobody could define, the death of her son in the tunnel catastrophe had given her in Washington an aura of martyrdom, heightened by her recent conversion to Buddhism. “The soybean is a much more sturdy, nutritious and economical plant than all the extravagant foods which our wasteful, self-indulgent diet has conditioned us to expect,” Kip’s Ma had said over the radio; her voice always sounded as if it were falling in drops, not of water, but of mayonnaise.
“Soybeans make an excellent substitute for bread, meat, cereals and coffee—and if all of us were compelled to adopt soybeans as our staple diet, it would solve the national food crisis and make it possible to feed more people. The greatest food for the greatest number—that’s my slogan. At a time of desperate public need, it’s our duty to sacrifice our luxurious tastes and eat our way back to prosperity by adapting ourselves to the simple, wholesome foodstuff on which the peoples of the Orient have so nobly subsisted for centuries. There’s a great deal that we could learn from the peoples of the Orient.”