Atlas Shrugged (10 page)

“Okay, I guess.”

“You ought to be sure of it. It’s important.” He looked up at Rearden, and repeated with a kind of stressed insistence, as if discharging a painful moral duty, “Hank, it’s very important.”

“I suppose so.”

“In fact, that’s what I came here to tell you.”

“For any special reason?”

Larkin considered it and decided that the duty was discharged. “No,” he said.

Rearden disliked the subject. He knew that it was necessary to have a man to protect him from the legislature; all industrialists had to employ such men. But he had never given much attention to this aspect of his business; he could not quite convince himself that it was necessary. An inexplicable kind of distaste, part fastidiousness, part boredom, stopped him whenever he tried to consider it.

“Trouble is, Paul,” he said, thinking aloud, “that the men one has to pick for that job are such a crummy lot.”

Larkin looked away. “That’s life,” he said.

“Damned if I see why. Can you tell me that? What’s wrong with the world?”

Larkin shrugged sadly. “Why ask useless questions? How deep is the ocean? How high is the sky? Who is John Galt?”

Rearden sat up straight. “No,” he said sharply. “No. There’s no reason to feel that way.”

He got up. His exhaustion had gone while he talked about his business. He felt a sudden spurt of rebellion, a need to recapture and defiantly to reassert his own view of existence, that sense of it which he had held while walking home tonight and which now seemed threatened in some nameless manner.

He paced the room, his energy returning. He looked at his family. They were bewildered, unhappy children—he thought—all of them, even his mother, and he was foolish to resent their ineptitude; it came from their helplessness, not from malice. It was he who had to make himself learn to understand them, since he had so much to give, since they could never share his sense of joyous, boundless power.

He glanced at them from across the room. His mother and Philip were engaged in some eager discussion; but he noted that they were not really eager, they were nervous. Philip sat in a low chair, his stomach forward, his weight on his shoulder blades, as if the miserable discomfort of his position were intended to punish the onlookers.

“What’s the matter, Phil?” Rearden asked, approaching him. “You look done in.”

“I’ve had a hard day,” said Philip sullenly.

“You’re not the only one who works hard,” said his mother. “Others have problems, too—even if they’re not billion-dollar, trans-super-continental problems like yours.”

“Why, that’s good. I always thought that Phil should find some interest of his own.”

“Good? You mean you like to see your brother sweating his health away? It amuses you, doesn’t it? I always thought it did.”

“Why, no, Mother. I’d like to help.”

“You don’t have to help. You don’t have to feel anything for any of us.”

Rearden had never known what his brother was doing or wished to do. He had sent Philip through college, but Philip had not been able to decide on any specific ambition. There was something wrong, by Rearden’s standards, with a man who did not seek any gainful employment, but he would not impose his standards on Philip; he could afford to support his brother and never notice the expense. Let him take it easy, Rearden had thought for years, let him have a chance to choose his career without the strain of struggling for a livelihood.

“What were you doing today, Phil?” he asked patiently.

“It wouldn’t interest you.”

“It does interest me. That’s why I’m asking.”

“I had to see twenty different people all over the place, from here to Redding to Wilmington.”

“What did you have to see them about?”

“I am trying to raise money for Friends of Global Progress.”

Rearden had never been able to keep track of the many organizations to which Philip belonged, nor to get a clear idea of their activities. He had heard Philip talking vaguely about this one for the last six months. It seemed to be devoted to some sort of free lectures on psychology, folk music and co-operative farming. Rearden felt contempt for groups of that kind and saw no reason for a closer inquiry into their nature.

He remained silent. Philip added without being prompted, “We need ten thousand dollars for a vital program, but it’s a martyr’s task, trying to raise money. There’s not a speck of social conscience left in people. When I think of the kind of bloated money-bags I saw today—why, they spend more than that on any whim, but I couldn’t squeeze just a hundred bucks a piece out of them, which was all I asked. They have no sense of moral duty, no ... What are you laughing at?” he asked sharply. Rearden stood before him, grinning.

It was so childishly blatant, thought Rearden, so helplessly crude: the hint and the insult, offered together. It would be so easy to squash Philip by returning the insult, he thought—by returning an insult which would be deadly because it would be true—that he could not bring himself to utter it. Surely, he thought, the poor fool knows he’s at my mercy, knows he’s opened himself to be hurt, so I don’t have to do it, and my not doing it is my best answer, which he won’t be able to miss. What sort of misery does he really live in, to get himself twisted quite so badly?

And then Rearden thought suddenly that he could break through Philip’s chronic wretchedness for once, give him a shock of pleasure, the unexpected gratification of a hopeless desire. He thought: What do I care about the nature of his desire?—it’s his, just as Rearden Metal was mine—it must mean to him what that meant to me—let’s see him happy just once, it might teach him something—didn’t I say that happiness is the agent of purification?—I’m celebrating tonight, so let him share in it—it will be so much for him, and so little for me.

“Philip,” he said, smiling, “call Miss Ives at my office tomorrow. She’ll have a check for you for ten thousand dollars.”

Philip stared at him blankly; it was neither shock nor pleasure; it was just the empty stare of eyes that looked glassy.

“Oh,” said Philip, then added, “We’ll appreciate it very much.” There was no emotion in his voice, not even the simple one of greed.

Rearden could not understand his own feeling: it was as if something leaden and empty were collapsing within him, he felt both the weight and the emptiness, together. He knew it was disappointment, but he wondered why it was so gray and ugly.

“It’s very nice of you, Henry,” Philip said dryly. “I’m surprised. I didn’t expect it of you.”

“Don’t you understand it, Phil?” said Lillian, her voice peculiarly clear and lilting. “Henry’s poured his metal today.” She turned to Rearden. “Shall we declare it a national holiday, darling?”

“You’re a good man, Henry,” said his mother, and added, “but not often enough.”

Rearden stood looking at Philip, as if waiting.

Philip looked away, then raised his eyes and held Rearden’s glance, as if engaged in a scrutiny of his own.

“You don’t really care about helping the underprivileged, do you?” Philip asked—and Rearden heard, unable to believe it, that the tone of his voice was reproachful.

“No, Phil, I don’t care about it at all. I only wanted you to be happy.”

“But that money is not for me. I am not collecting it for any personal motive. I have no selfish interest in the matter whatever.” His voice was cold, with a note of self-conscious virtue.

Rearden turned away. He felt a sudden loathing: not because the words were hypocrisy, but because they were true; Philip meant them.

“By the way, Henry,” Philip added, “do you mind if I ask you to have Miss Ives give me the money in cash?” Rearden turned back to him, puzzled. “You see, Friends of Global Progress are a very progressive group and they have always maintained that you represent the blackest element of social retrogression in the country, so it would embarrass us, you know, to have your name on our list of contributors, because somebody might accuse us of being in the pay of Hank Rearden.”

He wanted to slap Philip’s face. But an almost unendurable contempt made him close his eyes, instead.

“All right,” he said quietly, “you can have it in cash.”

He walked away, to the farthest window of the room, and stood looking at the glow of the mills in the distance.

He heard Larkin’s voice crying after him, “Damn it, Hank, you shouldn’t have given it to him!”

Then Lillian’s voice came, cold and gay: “But you’re wrong, Paul, you’re so wrong! What would happen to Henry’s vanity if he didn’t have us to throw alms to? What would become of his strength if he didn’t have weaker people to dominate? What would he do with himself if he didn’t keep us around as dependents? It’s quite all right, really, I’m not criticizing him, it’s just a law of human nature.”

She took the metal bracelet and held it up, letting it glitter in the lamplight.

“A chain,” she said. “Appropriate, isn’t it? It’s the chain by which he holds us all in bondage.”

CHAPTER III

THE TOP AND THE BOTTOM

The ceiling was that of a cellar, so heavy and low that people stooped when crossing the room, as if the weight of the vaulting rested on their shoulders. The circular booths of dark red leather were built into walls of stone that looked eaten by age and dampness. There were no windows, only patches of blue light shooting from dents in the masonry, the dead blue light proper for use in blackouts. The place was entered by way of narrow steps that led down, as if descending deep under the ground. This was the most expensive barroom in New York and it was built on the roof of a skyscraper.

Four men sat at a table. Raised sixty floors above the city, they did not speak loudly as one speaks from a height in the freedom of air and space; they kept their voices low, as befitted a cellar.

“Conditions and circumstances, Jim,” said Orren Boyle. “Conditions and circumstances absolutely beyond human control. We had everything mapped to roll those rails, but unforeseen developments set in, which nobody could have prevented. If you’d only given us a chance, Jim.”

“Disunity,” drawled James Taggart, “seems to be the basic cause of all social problems. My sister has a certain influence with a certain element among our stockholders. Their disruptive tactics cannot always be defeated.”

“You said it, Jim. Disunity, that’s the trouble. It’s my absolute opinion that in our complex industrial society, no business enterprise can succeed without sharing the burden of the problems of other enterprises.”

Taggart took a sip of his drink and put it down again. “I wish they’d fire that bartender,” he said.

“For instance, consider Associated Steel. We’ve got the most modern plant in the country and the best organization. That seems to me to be an indisputable fact, because we got the Industrial Efficiency Award of
Globe
Magazine last year. So we can maintain that we’ve done our best and nobody can blame us. But we cannot help it if the iron ore situation is a national problem. We could not get the ore, Jim.”

Taggart said nothing. He sat with his elbows spread wide on the table top. The table was uncomfortably small, and this made it more uncomfortable for his three companions, but they did not seem to question his privilege.

“Nobody can get ore any longer,” said Boyle. “Natural exhaustion of the mines, you know, and the wearing out of equipment, and shortages of materials, and difficulties of transportation, and other unavoidable conditions.”

“The ore industry is crumbling. That’s what’s killing the mining equipment business,” said Paul Larkin.

“It’s been proved that every business depends upon every other business,” said Orren Boyle. “So everybody ought to share the burdens of everybody else.”

“That is, I think, true,” said Wesley Mouch. But nobody ever paid any attention to Wesley Mouch.

“My purpose,” said Orren Boyle, “is the preservation of a free economy. It’s generally conceded that free economy is now on trial. Unless it proves its social value and assumes its social responsibilities, the people won’t stand for it. If it doesn’t develop a public spirit, it’s done for, make no mistake about that.”

Orren Boyle had appeared from nowhere, five years ago, and had since made the cover of every national news magazine. He had started out with a hundred thousand dollars of his own and a two-hundred-million-dollar loan from the government. Now he headed an enormous concern which had swallowed many smaller companies. This proved, he liked to say, that individual ability still had a chance to succeed in the world.

“The only justification of private property,” said Orren Boyle, “is public service.”

“That is, I think, indubitable,” said Wesley Mouch.

Orren Boyle made a noise, swallowing his liquor. He was a large man with big, virile gestures; everything about his person was loudly full of life, except the small black slits of his eyes.

“Jim,” he said, “Rearden Metal seems to be a colossal kind of swindle.”

“Uh-huh,” said Taggart.

“I hear there’s not a single expert who’s given a favorable report on it.”

“No, not one.”

“We’ve been improving steel rails for generations, and increasing their weight. Now, is it true that these Rearden Metal rails are to be lighter than the cheapest grade of steel?”

“That’s right,” said Taggart. “Lighter.”

“But it’s ridiculous, Jim. It’s physically impossible. For your heavy-duty, high-speed, main-line track?”

“That’s right.”

“But you’re just inviting disaster.”

“My sister is.”

Taggart made the stem of his glass whirl slowly between two fingers. There was a moment of silence.

“The National Council of Metal Industries,” said Orren Boyle, “passed a resolution to appoint a committee to study the question of Rearden Metal, inasmuch as its use may be an actual public hazard.”

“That is, in my opinion, wise,” said Wesley Mouch.