one to call, no one to tell you. You will have to decide them yourself.”
“But I can’t decide! Why me?”
“Because it’s your body that’s barring my way.”
“But I can’t decide! I’m not supposed to decide!”
“I’ll count to three,” she said. “Then I’ll shoot.”
“Wait! Wait! I haven’t said yes or no!” he cried, cringing tighter against the door, as if immobility of mind and body were his best protection, “One—” she counted; she could see his eyes staring at her in terror—“Two—” she could see that the gun held less terror for him than the alternative she offered—“Three.”
Calmly and impersonally, she, who would have hesitated to fire at an animal, pulled the trigger and fired straight at the heart of a man who had wanted to exist without the responsibility of consciousness.
Her gun was equipped with a silencer; there was no sound to attract anyone’s attention, only the thud of a body falling at her feet.
She picked up the key from the ground—then waited for a few brief moments, as had been agreed upon.
Francisco was first to join her, coming from behind a corner of the building, then Hank Rearden, then Ragnar Danneskjold. There had been four guards posted at intervals among the trees, around the building. They were now disposed of: one was dead, three were left in the brush, bound and gagged.
She handed the key to Francisco without a word. He unlocked the door and went in, alone, leaving the door open to the width of an inch.
The three others waited outside, by that opening.
The hall was lighted by a single naked bulb stuck in the middle of the ceiling. A guard stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor.
“Who are you?” he cried at the sight of Francisco entering as if he owned the place. “Nobody’s supposed to come in here tonight!”
“I did,” said Francisco.
“Why did Rusty let you in?”
“He must have had his reasons.”
“He wasn’t supposed to!”
“Somebody has changed your suppositions.” Francisco’s eyes were taking a lightning inventory of the place. A second guard stood on the landing at the turn of the stairs, looking down at them and listening.
“What’s your business?”
“Copper-mining.”
“Huh? I mean, who are you?”
“The name’s too long to tell you. I’ll tell it to your chief. Where is he?”
“I’m asking the questions!” But he backed a step away. “Don’t... don’t you act like a big shot or I’ll—”
“Hey, Pete, he is!” cried the second guard, paralyzed by Francisco’s manner.
The first one was struggling to ignore it; his voice grew louder with the growth of his fear, as he snapped at Francisco, “What are you after?”
“I said I’ll tell it to your chief. Where is he?”
“I’m asking the questions!”
“I’m not answering them.”
“Oh, you’re not, are you?” snarled Pete, who had but one recourse when in doubt: his hand jerked to the gun on his hip.
Francisco’s hand was too fast for the two men to see its motion, and his gun was too silent. What they saw and heard next was the gun flying out of Pete’s hand, along with a splatter of blood from his shattered fingers, and his muffled howl of pain. He collapsed, groaning.
In the instant when the second guard grasped it, he saw that Francisco’s gun was aimed at him.
“Don’t shoot, mister!” he cried.
“Come down here with your hands up,” ordered Francisco, holding his gun aimed with one hand and waving a signal to the crack of the door with the other.
By the time the guard descended the stairs, Rearden was there to disarm him, and Danneskjold to tie his hands and feet. The sight of Dagny seemed to frighten him more than the rest; he could not understand it: the three men wore caps and windbreakers, and, but for their manner, could be taken for a gang of highwaymen; the presence of a lady was inexplicable.
“Now,” said Francisco, “where is your chief?”
The guard jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. “Up there.”
“How many guards are there in the building?”
“Nine.”
“Where are they?”
“One’s on the cellar stairs. The others are all up there.”
“Where?”
“In the big laboratory. The one with the window.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“What are these rooms?” He pointed at the doors leading off the hall.
“They’re labs, too. They’re locked for the night.”
“Who’s got the key?”
“Him.” He jerked his head at Pete.
Rearden and Danneskjold took the key from Pete’s pocket and hurried soundlessly to check the rooms, while Francisco continued, “Are there any other men in the building?”
“No.”
“Isn’t there a prisoner here?”
“Oh... yeah, I guess so. There must be, or they wouldn’t’ve kept us all on duty.”
“Is he still here?”
“That, I don’t know. They’d never tell us.”
“Is Dr. Ferris here?”
“No. He left ten-fifteen minutes ago.”
“Now, that laboratory upstairs—does it open right on the stair landing?”
“Yes.”
“How many doors are there?”
“Three. It’s the one in the middle.”
“What are the other rooms?”
“There’s the small laboratory on one side and Dr. Ferris’ office on the other.”
“Are there connecting doors between them?”
“Yes.”
Francisco was turning to his companions, when the guard said pleadingly, “Mister, can I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Who are you?”
He answered in the solemn tone of a drawing-room introduction, “Francisco Domingo Carlos Andres Sebastian d’Anconia.”
He left the guard gaping at him and turned to a brief, whispered consultation with his companions.
In a moment, it was Rearden who went up the stairs—swiftly, soundlessly and alone.
Cages containing rats and guinea pigs were stacked against the walls of the laboratory; they had been put there by the guards who were playing poker on the long laboratory table in the center. Six of them were playing; two were standing in opposite corners, watching the entrance door, guns in hand. It was Rearden’s face that saved him from being shot on sight when he entered: his face was too well known to them and too unexpected. He saw eight heads staring at him with recognition and with inability to believe what they were recognizing.
He stood at the door, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, with the casual, confident manner of a
