Philip looked away, then raised his eyes and held Rearden’s glance, as if engaged in a scrutiny of his own.
“You don’t really care about helping the underprivileged, do you?”
Philip asked—and Rearden heard, unable to believe it, that the tone of his voice was reproachful.
“No, Phil, I don’t care about it at all. I only wanted you to be happy.”
“But that money is not for me. I am not collecting it for any personal motive. I have no selfish interest in the matter whatever.” His voice was cold, with a note of self-conscious virtue.
Rearden turned away. He felt a sudden loathing: not because the words were hypocrisy, but because they were true; Philip meant them.
“By the way, Henry,” Philip added, “do you mind if I ask you to have Miss Ives give me the money in cash?” Rearden turned back to him, puzzled. “You see, Friends of Global Progress are a very progressive group and they have always maintained that you represent the blackest element of social retrogression in the country, so it would embarrass us, you know, to have your name on our list of contributors, because somebody might accuse us of being in the pay of Hank Rearden.”
He wanted to slap Philip’s face. But an almost unendurable contempt made him close his eyes, instead.
“All right,” he said quietly, “you can have it in cash.”
He walked away, to the farthest window of the room, and stood looking at the glow of the mills in the distance.
He heard Larkin’s voice crying after him, “Damn it, Hank, you shouldn’t have given it to him!”
Then Lillian’s voice came, cold and gay: “But you’re wrong, Paul, you’re so wrong! What would happen to Henry’s vanity if he didn’t have us to throw alms to? What would become of his strength if he didn’t have weaker people to dominate? What would he do with himself if he didn’t keep us around as dependents? It’s quite all right, really, I’m not criticizing him, it’s just a law of human nature.”
She took the metal bracelet and held it up, letting it glitter in the lamplight.
“A chain,” she said. “Appropriate, isn’t it? It’s the chain by which he holds us all in bondage.”
CHAPTER III
THE TOP AND THE BOTTOM
The ceiling was that of a cellar, so heavy and low that people stooped when crossing the room, as if the weight of the vaulting rested on their shoulders. The circular booths of dark red leather were built into walls of stone that looked eaten by age and dampness. There were no windows, only patches of blue light shooting from dents in the masonry, the dead blue light proper for use in blackouts. The place was entered by way of narrow steps that led down, as if descending deep under the ground. This was the most expensive barroom in New York and it was built on the roof of a skyscraper.
Four men sat at a table. Raised sixty floors above the city, they did not speak loudly as one speaks from a height in the freedom of air and space; they kept their voices low, as befitted a cellar.
“Conditions and circumstances, Jim,” said Orren Boyle. “Conditions and circumstances absolutely beyond human control. We had everything mapped to roll those rails, but unforeseen developments set in which nobody could have prevented. If you’d only given us a chance, Jim.”
“Disunity,” drawled James Taggart, “seems to be the basic cause of all social problems. My sister has a certain influence with a certain element among our stockholders. Their disruptive tactics cannot always be defeated.”
“You said it, Jim. Disunity, that’s the trouble. It’s my absolute opinion that in our complex industrial society, no business enterprise can succeed without sharing the burden of the problems of other enterprises.”
Taggart took a sip of his drink and put it down again. “I wish they’d fire that bartender,” he said.
“For instance, consider Associated Steel. We’ve got the most modern plant in the country and the best organization. That seems to me to be an indisputable fact, because we got the Industrial Efficiency Award of Globe Magazine last year. So we can maintain that we’ve done our best and nobody can blame us. But we cannot help it if the iron ore situation is a national problem. We could not get the ore, Jim.”
Taggart said nothing. He sat with his elbows spread wide on the table top. The table was uncomfortably small, and this made it more uncomfortable for his three companions, but they did not seem to question his privilege.
“Nobody can get ore any longer,” said Boyle. “Natural exhaustion of the mines, you know, and the wearing out of equipment, and shortages of materials, and difficulties of transportation, and other unavoidable conditions.”
“The ore industry is crumbling. That’s what’s killing the mining equipment business,” said Paul Larkin.
“It’s been proved that every business depends upon every other business,” said Orren Boyle. “So everybody ought to share the burdens of everybody else.”
“That is, I think, true,” said Wesley Mouch. But nobody ever paid any attention to Wesley Mouch.
“My purpose,” said Orren Boyle, “is the preservation of a free economy. It’s generally conceded that free economy is now on trial. Unless it proves its social value and assumes its social responsibilities, the people won’t stand for it. If it doesn’t develop a public spirit, it’s done for, make no mistake about that.”
Orren Boyle had appeared from nowhere, five years ago, and had since made the cover of every national news magazine. He had started out with a hundred thousand dollars of his own and a two-hundred million-dollar loan from the government. Now he headed an enormous concern which had swallowed many smaller companies. This proved, he liked to say, that individual ability still had a chance to succeed in the world.
“The only justification of private property,” said Orren Boyle, “is public service.”
“That is, I think, indubitable,” said Wesley Mouch.
Orren Boyle made a noise, swallowing his liquor. He was a large man with big, virile gestures; everything about his person was loudly full of life, except the small black slits of his eyes.
“Jim,” he said, “Rearden Metal seems to be a colossal kind of swindle.”
“Uh-huh,” said Taggart.
“I hear there’s not a single expert who’s given a favorable report on it.”
“No, not one.”
“We’ve been improving steel rails for generations, and increasing their weight. Now, is it true that these Rearden Metal rails are to be lighter than the cheapest grade of steel?”
“That’s right,” said Taggart. “Lighter.”
“But it’s ridiculous, Jim. It’s physically impossible. For your heavy-duty, high-speed, main-line track?”
“That’s right.”
“But you’re just inviting disaster.”
“My sister is.”
Taggart made the stem of his glass whirl slowly between two fingers.
There was a moment of silence.
“The National Council of Metal Industries,” said Orren Boyle, “passed a resolution to appoint a committee to study the question of Rearden Metal, inasmuch as its use may be an actual public hazard.”
“That is, in my opinion, wise,” said Wesley Mouch.
“When everybody agrees,” Taggart’s voice suddenly went shrill, “when people are unanimous, how does one man dare to dissent? By what right? That’s what I want to know—by what right?”
Boyle’s eyes darted to Taggart’s face, but the dim light of the room made it impossible to see faces clearly: he saw only a pale, bluish smear.
“When we think of the natural resources, at a time of critical shortage,” Boyle said softly, “when we think of the crucial raw materials that are being wasted on an irresponsible private experiment, when we think of the ore...”
He did not finish. He glanced at Taggart again. But Taggart seemed to know that Boyle was waiting and to find the silence enjoyable.
“The public has a vital stake in natural resources, Jim, such as iron ore. The public can’t remain indifferent to
