“You won’t have to remind me.”
He turned to go. He tossed his hand in a casual salute and said, “If it could be built, I’d wish good luck to the Rio Norte Line.”
“It’s going to be built. And it’s going to be called the John Galt Line.”
“What?!”
It was an actual scream; she chuckled derisively. “The John Galt Line.”
“Dagny, in heaven’s name, why?”
“Don’t you like it?”
“How did you happen to choose that?”
“It sounds better than Mr. Nemo or Mr. Zero, doesn’t it?”
“Dagny, why that?”
“Because it frightens you.”
“What do you think it stands for?”
“The impossible. The unattainable. And you’re all afraid of my Line just as you’re afraid of that name.”
He started laughing. He laughed, not looking at her, and she felt strangely certain that he had forgotten her, that he was far away, that he was laughing—in furious gaiety and bitterness—at something in which she had no part.
When he turned to her, he said earnestly, “Dagny, I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
She shrugged. “Jim didn’t like it, either.”
“What do you like about it?”
“I hate it! I hate the doom you’re all waiting for, the giving up, and that senseless question that always sounds like a cry for help. I’m sick of hearing pleas for John Galt. I’m going to fight him.”
He said quietly, “You are.”
“I’m going to build a railroad line for him. Let him come and claim it!”
He smiled sadly and nodded: “He will.”
The glow of poured steel streamed across the ceiling and broke against one wall. Rearden sat at his desk, in the light of a single lamp. Beyond its circle, the darkness of the office blended with the darkness outside. He felt as if it were empty space where the rays of the furnaces moved at will; as if the desk were a raft hanging in mid-air, holding two persons imprisoned in privacy. Dagny sat in front of his desk.
She had thrown her coat off, and she sat outlined against it, a slim, tense body in a gray suit, leaning diagonally across the wide armchair.
Only her hand lay in the light, on the edge of the desk; beyond it, he saw the pale suggestion of her face, the white of a blouse, the triangle of an open collar.
“All right, Hank,” she said, “we’re going ahead with a new Rearden Metal bridge. This is the official order of the official owner of the John Galt Line.”
He smiled, looking down at the drawings of the bridge spread in the light on his desk. “Have you had a chance to examine the scheme we submitted?”
“Yes. You don’t need my comments or compliments. The order says it.”
“Very well. Thank you. I’ll start rolling the Metal”
“Don’t you want to ask whether the John Galt Line is in a position to place orders or to function?”
“I don’t need to. Your coming here says it.”
She smiled. “True. It’s all set, Hank. I came to tell you that and to discuss the details of the bridge in person.”
“All right, I am curious: who are the bondholders of the John Galt Line?”
“I don’t think any of them could afford it. All of them have growing enterprises. All of them needed their money for their own concerns.
But they needed the Line and they did not ask anyone for help.” She took a paper out of her bag. “Here’s John Galt, Inc.,” she said, handing it across the desk.
He knew most of the names on the list: “Ellis.. Wyatt, Wyatt Oil, Colorado. Ted Nielsen, Nielsen Motors, Colorado. Lawrence Hammond, Hammond Cars, Colorado. Andrew Stockton, Stockton Foundry, Colorado.” There were a few from other states; he noticed the name: “Kenneth Danagger, Danagger Coal, Pennsylvania.” The amounts of their subscriptions varied, from sums in five figures to six.
He reached for his fountain pen, wrote at the bottom of the list “Henry Rearden, Rearden Steel, Pennsylvania—$1,000,000” and tossed the list back to her.
“Hank,” she said quietly, “I didn’t want you in on this. You’ve invested so much in Rearden Metal that it’s worse for you than for any of us. You can’t afford another risk.”
“I never accept favors,” he answered coldly.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t ask people to take greater chances on my ventures than I take myself. If it’s a gamble, I’ll match anybody’s gambling. Didn’t you say that that track was my first showcase?”
She inclined her head and said gravely, “All right. Thank you.”
“Incidentally, I don’t expect to lose this money. I am aware of the conditions under which these bonds can be converted into stock at my option. I therefore expect to make an inordinate profit—and you’re going to earn it for me.”
She laughed. “God, Hank, I’ve spoken to so many yellow fools that they’ve almost infected me into thinking of the Line as of a hopeless loss! Thanks for reminding me. Yes, I think I’ll earn your inordinate profit for you.”
“If it weren’t for the yellow fools, there wouldn’t be any risk in it at all. But we have to beat them. We will.” He reached for two telegrams from among the papers on his desk. “There are still a few men in existence.” He extended the telegrams. “I think you’d like to see these.”
One of them read: “I had intended to undertake it in two years, but the statement of the State Science Institute compels me to proceed at once. Consider this a commitment for the construction of a 12-inch pipe line of Rearden Metal, 600 miles, Colorado to Kansas City.
Details follow. Ellis Wyatt.”
The other read: “Re our discussion of my order. Go ahead. Ken Danagger.”
He added, in explanation, “He wasn’t prepared to proceed at once, either. It’s eight thousand tons of Rearden Metal. Structural metal.
For coal mines.”
They glanced at each other and smiled. They needed no further comment.
He glanced down, as she handed the telegrams back to him. The skin of her hand looked transparent in the light, on the edge of his desk, a young girl’s hand with long, thin fingers, relaxed for a moment, defenseless.
“The Stockton Foundry in Colorado,” she said, “is going to finish that order for me—the one that the Amalgamated Switch and Signal Company ran out on. They’re going to get in touch with you about the Metal.”
“They have already. What have you done about the construction crews?”
“Nealy’s engineers are staying on, the best ones, those I need. And most of the foremen, too. It won’t be too hard to keep them going.
Nealy wasn’t of much use, anyway.”
“What about labor?”
“More applicants than I can hire. I don’t think the union is going to interfere. Most of the applicants are giving phony names. They’re union members. They need the work desperately. I’ll have a few guards on the Line, but I don’t expect any trouble.”
“What about your brother Jim’s Board of Directors?”
“They’re all scrambling to get statements into the newspapers to the effect that they have no connection whatever with the John Galt Line and how reprehensible an undertaking they think it is. They agreed to everything I asked.”
The line of her shoulders looked taut, yet thrown back easily, as if poised for flight. Tension seemed natural to her, not a sign of anxiety, but a sign of enjoyment; the tension of her whole body, under the gray suit, half-visible in the darkness, “Eddie Willers has taken over the office of Operating Vice-President,” she said. “If you need anything, get in touch with him. I’m leaving for Colorado tonight.”
“Tonight?”
