She married a boy she was engaged to. Eric Starnes got into their house on the wedding day, and when they came back from church after the ceremony, they found him in their bedroom, dead, messy dead, his wrists slashed... Now I say there might be forgiveness for a man who kills himself quietly. Who can pass judgment on another man’s suffering and on the limit of what he can bear? But the man who kills himself, making a show of his death in order to hurt somebody, the man who gives his life for malice—there’s no forgiveness for him, no excuse, he’s rotten clear through, and what he deserves is that people spit at his memory, instead of feeling sorry for him and hurt, as he wanted them to be... Well, that was Eric Starnes. I can tell you where to find the other two, if you wish.”
She found Gerald Starnes in the ward of a flophouse. He lay half twisted on a cot. His hair was still black, but the white stubble of his chin was like a mist of dead weeds over a vacant face. He was soggy drunk. A pointless chuckle kept breaking his voice when he spoke, the sound of a static, unfocused malevolence, “It went bust, the great factory. That’s what happened to it. Just went up and bust. Does that bother you, madam? The factory was rotten. Everybody is rotten. I’m supposed to beg somebody’s pardon, but I won’t. I don’t give a damn. People get fits trying to keep up the show, when it’s all rot, black rot, the automobiles, the buildings and the souls, and it doesn’t make any difference, one way or another. You should’ve seen the kind of literati who turned flip-flops when I whistled, when I had the dough. The professors, the poets, the intellectuals, the world-savers and the brother- lovers. Any way I whistled. I had lots of fun. I wanted to do good, but now I don’t. There isn’t any good. Not any goddamn good in the whole goddamn universe. I don’t propose to take a bath if I don’t feel like it, and that’s that. If you want to know anything about the factory, ask my sister. My sweet sister who had a trust fund they couldn’t touch, so she got out of it safe, even if she’s in the hamburger class now, not the filet mignon a la Sauce Bearnaise, but would she give a penny of it to her brother? The noble plan that busted was her idea as much as mine, but will she give me a penny?
Hah! Go take a look at the duchess, take a look. What do I care about the factory? It was just a pile of greasy machinery. I’ll sell you all my rights, claims and title to it—for a drink. I’m the last of the Starnes name. It used to be a great name—Starnes. I’ll sell it to you. You think I’m a stinking bum, but that goes for all the rest of them and for rich ladies like you, too. I wanted to do good for humanity. Hah! I wish they’d all boil in oil. Be lots of fun. I wish they’d choke. What does it matter? What does anything matter?”
On the next cot, a white-haired, shriveled little tramp turned in his sleep, moaning; a nickel clattered to the floor out of his rags. Gerald Starnes picked it up and slipped it into his own pocket. He glanced at Dagny. The creases of his face were a malignant smile.
“Want to wake him up and start trouble?” he asked. “If you do, I’ll say that you’re lying.”
The ill-smelling bungalow, where she found Ivy Starnes, stood on the edge of town, by the shore of the Mississippi. Hanging strands of moss and clots of waxy foliage made the thick vegetation look as if it were drooling; the too many draperies, hanging in the stagnant air of a small room, had the same look. The smell came from undusted corners and from incense burning in silver jars at the feet of contorted Oriental deities. Ivy Starnes sat on a pillow like a baggy Buddha. Her mouth was a tight little crescent, the petulant mouth of a child demanding adulation—on the spreading, pallid face of a woman past fifty. Her eyes were two lifeless puddles of water. Her voice had the even, dripping monotone of rain: “I can’t answer the kind of questions you’re asking, my girl. The research laboratory? The engineers? Why should I remember anything about them? It was my father who was concerned with such matters, not I. My father was an evil man who cared for nothing but business. He had no time for love, only for money. My brothers and I lived on a different plane. Our aim was not to produce gadgets, but to do good.
We brought a great, new plan into the factory. It was eleven years ago.
We were defeated by the greed, the selfishness and the base, animal nature of men. It was the eternal conflict between spirit and matter, between soul and body. They would not renounce their bodies, which was all we asked of them. I do not remember any of those men. I do not care to remember... The engineers? I believe it was they who started the hemophilia... Yes, that is what I said: the hemophilia—the slow leak—the loss of blood that cannot be stopped. They ran first.
They deserted us, one after another... Our plan? We put into practice that noble historical precept: From each according to his ability, to each according to his need. Everybody in the factory, from charwomen to president, received the same salary—the barest minimum necessary.
Twice a year, we all gathered in a mass meeting, where every person presented his claim for what he believed to be his needs. We voted on every claim, and the will of the majority established every person’s need and every person’s ability. The income of the factory was distributed accordingly. Rewards were based on need, and penalties on ability. Those whose needs were voted to be the greatest, received the most. Those who had not produced as much as the vote said they could, were fined and had to pay the fines by working overtime without pay.
That was our plan. It was based on the principle of selflessness. It required men to be motivated, not by personal gain, but by love for their brothers.”
Dagny heard a cold, implacable voice saying somewhere within her: Remember it—remember it well—it is not often that one can see pure evil—look at it—remember—and some day you’ll find the words to name its essence... She heard it through the screaming of other voices that cried in helpless violence: It’s nothing—I’ve heard it before—I’m hearing it everywhere—it’s nothing but the same old tripe—why can’t I stand it?—I can’t stand it—I can’t stand it!
“What’s the matter with you, my girl? Why did you jump up like that? Why are you shaking?... What? Do speak louder, I can’t hear you... How did the plan work out? I do not care to discuss it.
Things became very ugly indeed and went fouler every year. It has cost me my faith in human nature. In four years, a plan conceived, not by the cold calculations of the mind, but by the pure love of the heart, was brought to an end in the sordid mess of policemen, lawyers and bankruptcy proceedings. But I have seen my error and I am free of it, I am through with the world of machines, manufacturers and money, the world enslaved by matter. I am learning the emancipation of the spirit, as revealed in the great secrets of India, the release from bondage to flesh, the victory over physical nature, the triumph of the spirit over matter.”
Through the blinding white glare of anger, Dagny was seeing a long strip of concrete that had been a road, with weeds rising from its cracks, and the figure of a man contorted by a hand plow.
“But, my girl, I said that I do not remember... But I do not know their names, I do not know any names, I do not know what sort of adventurers my father may have had in that laboratory!...
Don’t you hear me?... I am not accustomed to being questioned in such manner and... Don’t keep repeating it. Don’t you know any words but ‘engineer’?... Don’t you hear me at all?... What’s the matter with you? I—I don’t like your face, you’re... Leave me alone. I don’t know who you are, I’ve never hurt you, I’m an old woman, don’t look at me like that, I... Stand back! Don’t come near me or I’ll call for help! I’ll... Oh, yes, yes, I know that one!
The chief engineer. Yes. He was the head of the laboratory. Yes.
William Hastings. That was his name—William Hastings. I remember.
He went off to Brandon, Wyoming. He quit the day after we introduced the plan. He was the second man to quit us... No. No, I don’t remember who was the first. He wasn’t anybody important.”
The woman who opened the door had graying hair and a poised, distinguished look of grooming; it took Dagny a few seconds to realize that her garment was only a simple cotton housedress, “May I see Mr. William Hastings?” asked Dagny.
The woman looked at her for the briefest instant of a pause; it was an odd glance, inquiring and grave. “May I ask your name?”
“I am Dagny Taggart, of Taggart Transcontinental.”
“Oh. Please come in, Miss Taggart. I am Mrs. William Hastings.”
The measured tone of gravity went through every syllable of her voice, like a warning. Her manner was courteous, but she did not smile.
It was a modest home in the suburbs of an industrial town. Bare tree branches cut across the bright, cold blue of the sky, on the top of the rise that led to the house. The walls of the living room were silver-gray; sunlight hit the crystal stand of a lamp with a white shade; beyond an open door, a breakfast nook was papered in red- dotted white.
“Were you acquainted with my husband in business, Miss Taggart?”
“No. I have never met Mr. Hastings. But I should like to speak to him on a matter of business of crucial
