have caused you any embarrassment or inconvenience. And with all those damn formalities that we have to go through—you know how it is, red tape!—it will take a few days, perhaps a week, to de-process that order and to lift the attachment.
... Mr. Rearden?” “I heard you.” “We’re desperately sorry and ready to make any amends within our power. You will, of course, be entitled to claim damages for any inconvenience this might cause you, and we are prepared to pay. We won’t contest it. You will, of course, file such a claim and—” “I have not said that.” “Uh? No, you haven’t... that is... well, what have you said, Mr. Rearden?” “I have said nothing.”
Late on the next afternoon, another voice came pleading from Washington. This one did not seem to slide, but to bounce on the telephone wire with the gay virtuosity of a tight-rope walker. It introduced itself as Tinky Holloway and pleaded that Rearden attend a conference, “an informal little conference, just a few of us, the top- level few,” to be held in New York, at the Wayne-Falkland Hotel, day after next.
“There have been so many misunderstandings in the past few weeks!” said Tinky Holloway. “Such unfortunate misunderstandings—and so unnecessary! We could straighten everything out in a jiffy, Mr. Rearden, if we had a chance to have a little talk with you. We’re extremely anxious to see you.”
“You can issue a subpoena for me any time you wish.”
“Oh, no! no! no!” The voice sounded frightened. “No, Mr. Rearden—why think of such things? You don’t understand us, we’re anxious to meet you on a friendly basis, we’re seeking nothing but your voluntary co- operation.” Holloway paused tensely, wondering whether he had heard the faint sound of a distant chuckle; he waited, but heard nothing else.
“Mr. Rearden?”
“Yes?”
“Surely, Mr. Rearden, at a time like this, a conference with us could be to your great advantage.”
“A conference—about what?”
“You’ve encountered so many difficulties—and we’re anxious to help you in any way we can.”
“I have not asked for help.”
“These are precarious times, Mr. Rearden, the public mood is so uncertain and inflammatory, so... so dangerous... and we want to be able to protect you.”
“I have not asked for protection.”
“But surely you realize that we’re in a position to be of value to you and if there’s anything you want from us, any...”
“There isn’t.”
“But you must have problems you’d like to discuss with us.”
“I haven’t.”
“Then... well, then”—giving up the attempt at the play of granting a favor, Holloway switched to an open plea—“then won’t you just give us a hearing?”
“If you have anything to say to me.”
“We have, Mr. Rearden, we certainly have! That’s all we’re asking for—a hearing. Just give us a chance. Just come to this conference.
You wouldn’t be committing yourself to anything—” He said it involuntarily, and stopped, hearing a bright, mocking stab of life in Rearden’s voice, an unpromising-sound, as Rearden answered: “I know it.”
“Well, I mean... that is... well, then, will you come?”
“All right,” said Rearden. “I’ll come.”
He did not listen to Holloway’s assurances of gratitude, he noted only that Holloway kept repeating, “At seven P.M., November fourth, Mr. Rearden... November fourth...” as if the date had some special significance.
Rearden dropped the receiver and lay back in his chair, looking at the glow of furnace flames on the ceiling of his office. He knew that the conference was a trap; he knew also that he was walking into it with nothing for any trappers to gain.
Tinky Holloway dropped the receiver, in his Washington office, and sat up tensely, frowning. Claude Slagenhop, president of Friends of Global Progress, who had sat in an armchair, nervously chewing a matchstick, glanced up at him and asked, “Not so good?”
Holloway shook his head. “He’ll come, but... no, not so good.”
He added, “I don’t think he’ll take it.”
“That’s what my punk told me.”
“I know.”
“The punk said we’d better not try it.”
“God damn your punk! We’ve got to! We’ll have to risk it!”
The punk was Philip Rearden who, weeks ago, had reported to Claude Slagenhop: “No, he won’t let me in, he won’t give me a job, I’ve tried, as you wanted me to, I’ve tried my best, but it’s no use, he won’t let me set foot inside his mills. And as to his frame of mind—listen, it’s bad. It’s worse than anything I expected. I know him and I can tell you that you won’t have a chance. He’s pretty much at the end of his rope. One more squeeze will snap it. You said the big boys wanted to know. Tell them not to do it. Tell them he... Claude, God help us, if they do it, they’ll lose him!”
“Well, you’re not of much help.”
Slagenhop had said dryly, turning away. Philip had seized his sleeve and asked, his voice shrinking suddenly into open anxiety, “Say, Claude... according to... to Directive 10-289... if he goes, there’s... there’s to be no heirs?”
“That’s right.”
“They’d seize the mills and... and everything?”
“That’s the law.”
“But... Claude, they wouldn’t do that to me, would they?”
“They don’t want him to go. You know that. Hold him, if you can.”
“But I can’t! You know I can’t! Because of my political ideas and... and everything I’ve done for you, you know what he thinks of me! I have no hold on him at all!”
“Well, that’s your tough luck.”
“Claude!” Philip had cried in panic. “Claude, they won’t leave me out in the cold, will they? I belong, don’t I? They’ve always said I belonged, they’ve always said they needed me... they said they needed men like me, not like him, men with my... my sort of spirit, remember? And after all I’ve done for them, after all my faith and service and loyalty to the cause—”
“You damn fool,” Slagenhop had snapped, “of what use are you to us without him?”
On the morning of November 4, Hank Rearden was awakened by the ringing of the telephone. He opened his eyes to the sight of a clear, pale sky, the sky of early dawn, in the window of his bedroom, a sky the delicate color of aquamarine, with the first rays of an invisible sun giving a shade of porcelain pink to Philadelphia’s ancient roof tops.
For a moment, while his consciousness had a purity to equal the sky’s, while he was aware of nothing but himself and had not yet reharnessed his soul to the burden of alien memories, he lay still, held by the sight and by the enchantment of a world to match it, a world where the style of existence would be a continuous morning.
The telephone threw him back into exile: it was screaming at spaced intervals, like a nagging, chronic cry for help, the kind of cry that did not belong in his world. He lifted the receiver, frowning. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Henry,” said a quavering voice; it was his mother.
“Mother—at this hour?” he asked dryly.
“Oh, you’re always up at dawn, and I wanted to catch you before you went to the office.”
“Yes? What is it?”
“I’ve got to see you, Henry. I’ve got to speak to you. Today. Sometime today. It’s important.”
“Has anything happened?”
“No... yes... that is... I’ve got to have a talk with you in person. Will you come?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t. I have an appointment in New York tonight. If you want me to come tomorrow—”
“No! No, not tomorrow. It’s got to be today. It’s got to.” There was a dim tone of panic in her voice, but it was the stale panic of chronic helplessness, not the sound of an emergency—except for an odd echo of fear in her mechanical insistence.
