“Let’s . . . let’s get Jim out of here,” said Ferris shakily. “Let’s get him to a doctor . . . or somewhere . . .”
They pulled Taggart to his feet; he did not resist, he obeyed lethargically, and he moved his feet when pushed. It was he who had reached the state to which he had wanted Galt to be reduced. Holding his arms at both sides, his two friends led him out of the room.
He saved them from the necessity of admitting to themselves that they wanted to escape Galt’s eyes. Galt was watching them; his glance was too austerely perceptive.
“We’ll be back,” snapped Ferris to the chief of the guards. “Stay here and don’t let anyone in. Understand? No one.”
They pushed Taggart into their car, parked by the trees at the entrance. “We’ll be back.” said Ferris to no one in particular, to the trees and the darkness of the sky.
For the moment, their only certainty was that they had to escape from that cellar—the cellar where the living generator was left tied by the side of the dead one.
CHAPTER X
IN THE NAME OF THE BEST AMONG US
Dagny walked straight toward the guard who stood at the door of “Project F”. Her steps sounded pourposeful, even and open, rining in the silence of the path among the trees. She raised her head to a ra of moonlight, to let him recognize her face.
“Let me in,” she said.
“No admittance,” he answered in the voice of a robot. “By order or Dr. Ferris.”
“I am here by order of Mr. Thompson.”
“Huh? . . . I . . . I don’t know anything about that.”
“I do.”
“I mean, Dr. Ferris hasn’t told me . . . ma’am.”
“I am telling you.”
“But I’m not supposed to take any orders from anyone excepting Dr. Ferris.”
“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 my name is 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 IH 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?”