present... Don’t worry,” he added, “your boys have put it through every kind of test. There were no hidden messages. It was just a present from an anonymous admirer.”
The cigarette between Galt’s fingers bore the sign of the dollar.
James Taggart was no good at the job of persuasion, Mr. Thompson concluded. But Chick Morrison, whom he brought the next day, did no better.
“I... I’ll just throw myself on your mercy, Mr. Galt,” said Chick Morrison with a frantic smile. “You’re right. I’ll concede that you’re right—and all I can appeal to is your pity. Deep down in my heart, I can’t believe that you’re a total egoist who feels no pity for the people.” He pointed to a pile of papers he had spread on a table.
“Here’s a plea signed by ten thousand schoolchildren, begging you to join us and save them. Here’s a plea from a home for the crippled. Here’s a petition sent by the ministers of two hundred different faiths. Here’s an appeal from the mothers of the country. Read them.”
“Is this an order?”
“No!” cried Mr. Thompson. “It’s not an order!”
Galt remained motionless, not extending his hand for the papers.
“These are just plain, ordinary people, Mr. Galt,” said Chick Morrison in a tone intended to project their abject humility. “They can’t tell you what to do. They wouldn’t know. They’re merely begging you. They may be weak, helpless, blind, ignorant. But you, who are so intelligent and strong, can’t you take pity on them? Can’t you help them?”
“By dropping my intelligence and following their blindness?”
“They may be wrong, but they don’t know any better!”
“But I, who do, should obey them?”
“I can’t argue, Mr. Galt. I’m just begging for your pity. They’re suffering. I’m begging you to pity those who suffer. I’m... Mr. Galt,” he asked, noticing that Galt was looking off at the distance beyond the window and that his eyes were suddenly implacable, “what’s the matter? What are you thinking of?”
“Hank Rearden.”
“Uh... why?”
“Did they feel any pity for Hank Rearden?”
“Oh, but that’s different! He—”
“Shut up,” said Galt evenly.
“I only—”
“Shut up!” snapped Mr. Thompson. “Don’t mind him, Mr. Galt.
He hasn’t slept for two nights. He’s scared out of his wits.”
Dr. Floyd Ferris, next day, did not seem to be scared—but it was worse, thought Mr. Thompson. He observed that Galt remained silent and would not answer Ferris at all.
“It’s the question of moral responsibility that you might not have studied sufficiently, Mr. Galt,” Dr. Ferris was drawling in too airy, too forced a tone of casual informality. “You seem to have talked on the radio about nothing but sins of commission. But there are also the sins of omission to consider. To fail to save a life is as immoral as to murder. The consequences are the same—and since we must judge actions by their consequences, the moral responsibility is the same.
... For instance, in view of the desperate shortage of food, it has been suggested that it might become necessary to issue a directive ordering that every third one of all children under the age of ten and of all adults over the age of sixty be put to death, to secure the survival of the rest. You wouldn’t want this to happen, would you?
You can prevent it. One word from you would prevent it. If you refuse and all those people are executed—it will be your fault and your moral responsibility!”
“You’re crazy!” screamed Mr. Thompson, recovering from shock and leaping to his feet. “Nobody’s ever suggested any such thing! Nobody’s ever considered it! Please, Mr. Galt! Don’t believe him! He doesn’t mean it!”
“Oh yes, he does,” said Galt. “Tell the bastard to look at me, then look in the mirror, then ask himself whether I would ever think that my moral stature is at the mercy of his actions.”
“Get out of here!” cried Mr. Thompson, yanking Ferris to his feet.
“Get out! Don’t let me hear another squeak out of you!” He flung the door open and pushed Ferris at the startled face of a guard outside.
Turning to Galt, he spread his arms and let them drop with a gesture of drained helplessness. Galt’s face was expressionless.
“Look,” said Mr. Thompson pleadingly, “isn’t there anybody who can talk to you?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“We’ve got to. We’ve got to convince you. Is there anyone you’d want to talk to?”
“No.”
“I thought maybe... it’s because she talks—used to talk—like you, at times... maybe if I sent Miss Dagny Taggart to tell you—”
“That one? Sure, she used to talk like me. She’s my only failure. I thought she was the kind who belonged on my side. But she double crossed me, to keep her railroad. She’d sell her soul for her railroad.
Send her in, if you want me to slap her face.”
“No, no, no! You don’t have to see her, if that’s how you feel. I don’t want to waste more time on people who rub you the wrong way...
Only... only if it’s not Miss Taggart, I don’t know whom to pick.
... If... if I could find somebody you’d be willing to consider or...”
“I’ve changed my mind,” said Galt. “There is somebody I’d like to speak to.”
“Who?” cried Mr. Thompson eagerly.
“Dr. Robert Stadler.”
Mr. Thompson emitted a long whistle and shook his head apprehensively. “That one is no friend of yours,” he said in a tone of honest warning.
“He’s the one I want to see.”
“Okay, if you wish. If you say so. Anything you wish. I’ll have him here tomorrow morning.”
That evening, dining with Wesley Mouch in his own suite, Mr. Thompson glared angrily at a glass of tomato juice placed before him. “What?
No grapefruit juice?” he snapped; his doctor had prescribed grapefruit juice as protection against an epidemic of colds.
“No grapefruit juice,” said the waiter, with an odd kind of emphasis.
“Fact is,” said Mouch bleakly, “that a gang of raiders attacked a train at the Taggart Bridge on the Mississippi. They blew up the track and damaged the bridge. Nothing serious. It’s being repaired—but all traffic is held up and the trains from Arizona can’t get through.”
“That’s ridiculous! Aren’t there any other—?” Mr. Thompson stopped; he knew that there were no other railroad bridges across the Mississippi.
After a moment, he spoke up in a staccato voice. “Order army detachments to guard the bridge. Day and night. Tell them to pick their best men for it. If anything happened to that bridge—”
He did not finish; he sat hunched, staring down at the costly china plates and the delicate hors d’oeuvres before him. The absence of so prosaic a commodity as grapefruit juice had suddenly made real to him, for the first time, what it was that would happen to the city of New York if anything happened to the Taggart Bridge.
“Dagny,” said Eddie Willers, that evening, “the bridge is not the only problem.” He snapped on her desk lamp which, in forced concentration on her work, she had neglected to turn on at the approach of dusk.
“No transcontinental trains can leave San Francisco. One of the fighting factions out there—I don’t know which one—has seized our terminal and imposed a ‘departure tax’ on trains. Meaning that they’re holding trains for ransom. Our terminal manager has quit. Nobody knows what to do there now.”
“I can’t leave New York,” she answered stonily.
“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why it’s I who’ll go there to straighten things out. At least, to find a man to put in charge.”
“No! I don’t want you to. It’s too dangerous. And what for? It doesn’t matter now. There’s nothing to
