destruction all the greatness of the world, all that which was mine and yours, which was made by us and is still ours by right—because I cannot believe that men can refuse to see, that they can remain blind and deaf to us forever, when the truth is ours and their lives depend on accepting it. They still love their lives—and that is the uncorrupted remnant of their minds. So long as men desire to live, I cannot lose my battle.”
“Do they?” said Hugh Akston softly. “Do they desire it? No, don’t answer me now. I know that the answer was the hardest thing for any of us to grasp and to accept. Just take that question back with you, as the last premise left for you to check.”
“You’re leaving as our friend,” said Midas Mulligan, “and we’ll be fighting everything you’ll do, because we know you’re wrong, but it’s not you that we’ll be damning.”
“You’ll come back,” said Hugh Akston, “because yours is an error of knowledge, not a moral failure, not an act of surrender to evil, but only the last act of being victim to your own virtue. We’ll wait for you—and, Dagny, when you come back, you will have discovered that there need never be any conflict among your desires, nor so tragic a clash of values as the one you’ve borne so well.”
“Thank you,” she said, closing her eyes.
“We must discuss the conditions of your departure,” said Galt; he spoke in the dispassionate manner of an executive. “First, you must give us your word that you will not disclose our secret or any part of it—neither our cause nor our existence nor this valley nor your whereabouts for the past month—to anyone in the outer world, not at any time or for any purpose whatsoever.”
“I give you my word.”
“Second, you must never attempt to find this valley again. You are not to come here uninvited. Should you break the first condition, it will not place us in serious danger. Should you break the second—it will. It is not our policy ever to be at the arbitrary mercy of the good faith of another person, or at the mercy of a promise that cannot be enforced. Nor can we expect you to place our interests above your own. Since you believe that your course is right, the day may come when you may find it necessary to lead our enemies to this valley. We shall, therefore, leave you no means to do it. You will be taken out of the valley by plane, blindfolded, and you will be flown a distance sufficient to make it impossible for you ever to retrace the course.”
She inclined her head. “You are right.”
“Your plane has been repaired. Do you wish to reclaim it by signing a draft on your account at the Mulligan Bank?”
“No.”
“Then we shall hold it, until such time as you choose to pay for it.
Day after tomorrow, I will take you in my plane to a point outside the valley and leave you within reach of further transportation.”
She inclined her head. “Very well.”
It had grown dark, when they left Midas Mulligan’s. The trail back to Galt’s house led across the valley, past Francisco’s cabin, and the three of them walked home together. A few squares of lighted windows hung scattered through the darkness, and the first streams of mist were weaving slowly across the panes, like shadows cast by a distant sea.
They walked in silence, but the sound of their steps, blending into a single, steady beat, was like a speech to be grasped and not to be uttered in any other form.
After a while, Francisco said, “It changes nothing, it only makes the span a little longer, and the last stretch is always the hardest—but it’s the last.”
“I will hope so,” she said. In a moment, she repeated quietly, “The last is the hardest.” She turned to Galt. “May I make one request?”
“Yes.”
“Will you let me go tomorrow?”
“If you wish.”
When Francisco spoke again, moments later, it was as if he were addressing the unnamed wonder in her mind; his voice had the tone of answering, a question: “Dagny, all three of us are in love”—she jerked her head to him—“with the same thing, no matter what its forms. Don’t wonder why you feel no breach among us. You’ll be one of us, so long as you’ll remain in love with your rails and your engines—and they’ll lead you back to us, no matter how many times you lose your way. The only man never to be redeemed is the man without passion.”
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“For what?”
“For... for the way you sound.”
“How do I sound? Name it, Dagny.”
“You sound... as if you’re happy.”
“I am—in exactly the same way you are. Don’t tell me what you feel. I know it. But, you see, the measure of the hell you’re able to endure is the measure of your love. The hell I couldn’t bear to witness would be to see you being indifferent.”
She nodded silently, unable to name as joy any part of the things she felt, yet feeling that he was right.
Clots of mist were drifting, like smoke, across the moon, and in the diffused glow she could not distinguish the expressions of their faces, as she walked between them: the only expressions to perceive were the straight silhouettes of their bodies, the unbroken sound of their steps and her own feeling that she wished to walk on and on, a feeling she could not define, except that it was neither doubt nor pain. When they approached his cabin, Francisco stopped, the gesture of his hand embracing them both as he pointed to his door. “Will you come in—since it’s to be our last night together for some time? Let’s have a drink to that future of which all three of us are certain.”
“Are we?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Galt, “we are.”
She looked at their faces when Francisco switched on the light in his house. She could not define their expressions, it was not happiness or any emotion pertaining to joy, their faces were taut and solemn, but it was a glowing solemnity—she thought—if this were possible, and the odd glow she felt within her, told her that her own face had the same look.
Francisco reached for three glasses from a cupboard, but stopped, as at a sudden thought. He placed one glass on the table, then reached for the two silver goblets of Sebastian d’Anconia and placed them beside it.
“Are you going straight to New York, Dagny?” he asked, in the calm, unstrained tone of a host, bringing out a bottle of old wine, “Yes,” she answered as calmly.
“I’m flying to Buenos Aires day after tomorrow,” he said, uncorking the bottle. “I’m not sure whether I’ll be back in New York later, but if I am, it will be dangerous for you to see me.”
“I won’t care about that,” she said, “unless you feel that I’m not entitled to see you any longer.”
“True, Dagny. You’re not. Not in New York.”
He was pouring the wine and he glanced up at Galt. “John, when will you decide whether you’re going back or staying here?”
Galt looked straight at him, then said slowly, in the tone of a man who knows all the consequences of his words, “I have decided, Francisco. I’m going back.”
Francisco’s hand stopped. For a long moment, he was seeing nothing but Galt’s face. Then his eyes moved to hers. He put the bottle down and he did not step back, but it was as if his glance drew back to a wide range, to include them both, “But of course,” he said.
He looked as if he had moved still farther and were now seeing the whole spread of their years; his voice had an even, uninflected sound, quality that matched the size of the vision.
“I knew it twelve years ago,” he said. “I knew it before you could have known, and it’s I who should have seen that you would see. That night, when you called us to New York, I thought of it then as”—he was speaking to Galt, but his eyes moved to Dagny—“as everything that you were seeking... everything you told us to live for or die, if necessary. I should have seen that you would think it, too. It could not have been otherwise. It is as it had—and ought—to be. It was set then, twelve years ago.” He looked at Galt and chuckled softly. “And you say that it’s I who’ve taken the hardest beating?”
He turned with too swift a movement—then, too slowly, as if in deliberate emphasis, he completed the task of pouring the wine, filling the three vessels on the table. He picked up the two silver goblets, looked down at them
