If you wish to double-cross me, it’s in your power.”
Larkin looked hurt. “That’s very unfair of you,” he said; there was a dry little note of righteous reproach in his voice. “I have never given you cause to distrust me.” He picked up the papers with a hasty movement.
Rearden saw the papers disappear into Larkin’s inside coat pocket.
He saw the flare of the open coat, the wrinkles of a vest pulled tight over flabby bulges, and a stain of perspiration in the armpit of the shirt.
Unsummoned, the picture of a face seen twenty-seven years ago rose suddenly in his mind. It was the face of a preacher on a street corner he had passed, in a town he could not remember any longer. Only the dark walls of the slums remained in his memory, the rain of an autumn evening, and the righteous malice of the man’s mouth, a small mouth stretched to yell into the darkness: “. . . the noblest ideal—that man live for the sake of his brothers, that the strong work for the weak, that he who has ability serve him who hasn’t . . .”
Then he saw the boy who had been Hank Rearden at eighteen. He saw the tension of the face, the speed of the walk, the drunken exhilaration of the body, drunk on the energy of sleepless nights, the proud lift of the head, the clear, steady, ruthless eyes, the eyes of a man who drove himself without pity toward that which he wanted. And he saw what Paul Larkin must have been at that time—a youth with an aged baby’s face, smiling ingratiatingly, joylessly, begging to be spared, pleading with the universe to give him a chance. If someone had shown that youth to the Hank Rearden of that time and told him that this was to be the goal of his steps, the collector of the energy of his aching tendons, what would he have—
It was not a thought, it was like the punch of a fist inside his skull.
Then, when he could think again, Rearden knew what the boy he had been would have felt: a desire to step on the obscene thing which was Larkin and grind every wet bit of it out of existence.
He had never experienced an emotion o[ this kind. It took him a few moments to realize that this was what men called hatred.
He noticed that rising to leave and muttering some sort of good-byes, Larkin had a wounded, reproachful, mouth-pinched look, as if he, Larkin, were the injured party.
When he sold his coal mines to Ken Danagger, who owned the largest coal company in Pennsylvania, Rearden wondered why he felt as if it were almost painless. He felt no hatred. Ken Danagger was a man in his fifties, with a hard, closed face; he had started in life as a miner.
When Rearden handed to him the deed to his new property, Danagger said impassively, “I don’t believe I’ve mentioned that any coal you buy from me, you’ll get it at cost.”
Rearden glanced at him, astonished. “It’s against the law,” he said.
“Who’s going to find out what sort of cash I band to you in your own living room?”
“You’re talking about a rebate.”
“I am.”
“That’s against two dozen laws. They’ll sock you worse than me, if they catch you at it.”
“Sure. That’s your protection—so you won’t be left at the mercy of my good will.”
Rearden smiled; it was a happy smile, but he closed his eyes as under a blow. Then he shook his head. “Thanks,” he said. “But I’m not one of them. I don’t expect anybody to work for me at cost.”
“I’m not one of them, either,” said Danagger angrily. “Look here, Rearden, don’t you suppose I know what I’m getting, unearned? The money doesn’t pay you for it. Not nowadays.”
“You didn’t volunteer to bid to buy my property. I asked you to buy it. I wish there had been somebody like you in the ore business, to take over my mines. There wasn’t. If you want to do me a favor, don’t offer me rebates. Give me a chance to pay you higher prices, higher than anyone else will offer, sock me anything you wish, just so I’ll be first to get the coal. I’ll manage my end of it. Only let me have the coal.”
“You’ll have it.”
Rearden wondered, for a while, why he heard no word from Wesley Mouch. His calls to Washington remained unanswered. Then he received a letter consisting of a single sentence which informed him that Mr. Mouch was resigning from his employ. Two weeks later, he read in the newspapers that Wesley Mouch had been appointed Assistant Coordinator of the Bureau of Economic Planning and National Resources.
Don’t dwell on any of it—thought Rearden, through the silence of many evenings, fighting the sudden access of that new emotion which he did not want to feel—there is an unspeakable evil in the world, you know it, and it’s no use dwelling on the details of it. You must work a little harder. Just a little harder. Don’t let it win.
The beams and girders of the Rearden Metal bridge were coming daily out of the rolling mills, and were being shipped to the site of the John Galt Line, where the first shapes of green-blue metal, swung into space to span the canyon, glittered in the first rays of the spring sun.
He had no time for pain, no energy for anger. Within a few weeks, it was over; the blinding stabs of hatred ceased and did not return.
He was back in confident self-control on the evening when he telephoned Eddie Willers, “Eddie, I’m in New York, at the Wayne-Falkland. Come to have breakfast with me tomorrow morning. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
Eddie Willers went to the appointment with a heavy feeling of guilt.
He had not recovered from the shock of the Equalization of Opportunity Bill; it had left a dull ache within him, like the black-and-blue mark of a blow. He disliked the sight of the city: it now looked as if it hid the threat of some malicious unknown. He dreaded facing one of the Bill’s victims: he felt almost as if he, Eddie Willers, shared the responsibility for it in some terrible way which he could not define.
When he saw Rearden, the feeling vanished. There was no hint suggesting a victim, in Rearden’s bearing. Beyond the windows of the hotel room, the spring sunlight of early morning sparkled on the windows of the city, the sky was a very pale blue that seemed young, the offices were still closed, and the city did not look as if it held malice, but as if it were joyously, hopefully ready to swing into action—in the same manner as Rearden. He looked refreshed by an untroubled sleep, he wore a dressing gown, he seemed impatient of the necessity to dress, unwilling to delay the exciting game of his business duties.
“Good morning, Eddie. Sorry if I got you out so early. It’s the only time I had. Have to go back to Philadelphia right after breakfast. We can talk while we’re eating.”
The dressing gown he wore was of dark blue flannel, with the white initials “H R” on the breast pocket. He looked young, relaxed, at home in this room and in the world.
Eddie watched a waiter wheel the breakfast table into the room with a swift efficiency that made him feel braced. He found himself enjoying the stiff freshness of the white tablecloth and the sunlight sparkling on the silver, on the two bowls of crushed ice holding glasses of orange juice; he had not known that such things could give him an invigorating pleasure.
“I didn’t want to phone Dagny long distance about this particular matter,” said Rearden. “She has enough to do. We can settle it in a few minutes, you and I.”
“If I have the authority to do it,”
Rearden smiled. “You have.” He leaned forward across the table.
“Eddie, what’s the financial state of Taggart Transcontinental at the moment? Desperate?”
“Worse than that, Mr. Rearden.”
“Are you able to meet pay rolls?”
“Not quite. We’ve kept it out of the newspapers, but I think everybody knows it. We’re in arrears all over the system and Jim is running out of excuses.”
“Do you know that your first payment for the Rearden Metal rail is due next week?”
“Yes, I know it.”
“Well, let’s agree on a moratorium. I’m going to give you an extension—you won’t have to pay me anything until six months after the opening of the John Galt Line.”
Eddie Willers put down his cup of coffee with a sharp thud. He could not say a word.
Rearden chuckled. “What’s the matter? You do have the authority to accept, don’t you?”