Atlas Shrugged (16 page)

“No. That’s not necessary or advisable. I shall merely put her in her place. It’s the chance I’ve been waiting for.”

“You got something on her? Some scandal?”

“No, no. You wouldn’t understand. It’s merely that she’s gone too far, for once, and she’s going to get slapped down. She’s pulled an inexcusable sort of stunt, without consulting anybody. It’s a serious offense against our Mexican neighbors. When the Board hears about it, they’ll pass a couple of new rulings on the Operating Department, which will make my sister a little easier to manage.”

“You’re smart, Jim,” she said.

“I’d better get dressed.” He sounded pleased. He turned back to the washbowl, adding cheerfully, “Maybe I
will
take you out tonight and buy you some shish-kebab.”

The telephone rang.

He lifted the receiver. The operator announced a long-distance call from Mexico City.

The hysterical voice that came on the wire was that of his political man in Mexico.

“I couldn’t help it, Jim!” it gulped. “I couldn’t help it! ... We had no warning, I swear to God, nobody suspected, nobody saw it coming, I’ve done my best, you can’t blame me, Jim, it was a bolt out of the blue! The decree came out this morning, just five minutes ago, they sprang it on us like that, without any notice! The government of the People’s State of Mexico has nationalized the San Sebastián Mines and the San Sebastián Railroad.”

“... and, therefore, I can assure the gentlemen of the Board that there is no occasion for panic. The event of this morning is a regrettable development, but I have full confidence—based on my knowledge of the inner processes shaping our foreign policy in Washington—that our government will negotiate an equitable settlement with the government of the People’s State of Mexico, and that we will receive full and just compensation for our property.”

James Taggart stood at the long table, addressing the Board of Directors. His voice was precise and monotonous; it connoted safety.

“I am glad to report, however, that I foresaw the possibility of such a turn of events and took every precaution to protect the interests of Taggart Transcontinental. Some months ago, I instructed our Operating Department to cut the schedule on the San Sebastián Line down to a single train a day, and to remove from it our best motive power and rolling stock, as well as every piece of equipment that could be moved. The Mexican government was able to seize nothing but a few wooden cars and one superannuated locomotive. My decision has saved the company many millions of dollars—I shall have the exact figures computed and submit them to you. I do feel, however, that our stockholders will be justified in expecting that those who bore the major responsibility for this venture should now bear the consequences of their negligence. I would suggest, therefore, that we request the resignation of Mr. Clarence Eddington, our economic consultant, who recommended the construction of the San Sebastián Line, and of Mr. Jules Mott, our representative in Mexico City.”

The men sat around the long table, listening. They did not think of what they would have to do, but of what they would have to say to the men they represented. Taggart’s speech gave them what they needed.

Orren Boyle was waiting for him, when Taggart returned to his office. Once they were alone, Taggart’s manner changed. He leaned against the desk, sagging, his face loose and white.

“Well?” he asked.

Boyle spread his hands out helplessly. “I’ve checked, Jim,” he said. “It’s straight all right: d‘Anconia’s lost fifteen million dollars of his own money in those mines. No, there wasn’t anything phony about that, he didn’t pull any sort of trick, he put up his own cash and now he’s lost it.”

“Well, what’s he going to do about it?”

“That—I don’t know. Nobody does.”

“He’s not going to let himself be robbed, is he? He’s too smart for that. He must have something up his sleeve.”

“I sure hope so.”

“He’s outwitted some of the slickest combinations of money-grubbers on earth. Is he going to be taken by a bunch of Greaser politicians with a decree? He must have something on them, and he’ll get the last word, and we must be sure to be in on it, too!”

“That’s up to you, Jim. You’re his friend.”

“Friend be damned! I hate his guts.”

He pressed a button for his secretary. The secretary entered uncertainly, looking unhappy; he was a young man, no longer too young, with a bloodless face and the well-bred manner of genteel poverty.

“Did you get me an appointment with Francisco d‘Anconia?” snapped Taggart.

“No, sir.”

“But, God damn it, I told you to call the—”

“I wasn’t able to, sir. I have tried.”

“Well, try again.”

“I mean I wasn’t able to obtain the appointment, Mr. Taggart.”

“Why not?”

“He declined it.”

“You mean he refused to see me?”

“Yes, sir, that is what I mean.”

“He
wouldn’t
see me?”

“No, sir, he wouldn’t.”

“Did you speak to him in person?”

“No, sir, I spoke to his secretary.”

“What did he tell you? Just what did he say?” The young man hesitated and looked more unhappy. “What did he say?”

“He said that Señor d‘Anconia said that you bore him, Mr. Taggart.”

The proposal which they passed was known as the “Anti-dog-eat-dog Rule.” When they voted for it, the members of the National Alliance of Railroads sat in a large hall in the deepening twilight of a late autumn evening and did not look at one another.

The National Alliance of Railroads was an organization formed, it was claimed, to protect the welfare of the railroad industry. This was to be achieved by developing methods of co-operation for a common purpose; this was to be achieved by the pledge of every member to subordinate his own interests to those of the industry as a whole; the interests of the industry as a whole were to be determined by a majority vote, and every member was committed to abide by any decision the majority chose to make.

“Members of the same profession or of the same industry should stick together,” the organizers of the Alliance had said. “We all have the same problems, the same interests, the same enemies. We waste our energy fighting one another, instead of presenting a common front to the world. We can all grow and prosper together, if we pool our efforts.” “Against whom is this Alliance being organized?” a skeptic had asked. The answer had been: “Why, it’s not ‘against’ anybody. But if you want to put it that way, why, it’s against shippers or supply manufacturers or anyone who might try to take advantage of us. Against whom is any union organized?” “That’s what I wonder about,” the skeptic had said.

When the Anti-dog-eat-dog Rule was offered to the vote of the full membership of the National Alliance of Railroads at its annual meeting, it was the first mention of this Rule in public. But all the members had heard of it; it had been discussed privately for a long time, and more insistently in the last few months. The men who sat in the large hall of the meeting were the presidents of the railroads. They did not like the Anti-dog-eat-dog Rule; they had hoped it would never be brought up. But when it was brought up, they voted for it.

No railroad was mentioned by name in the speeches that preceded the voting. The speeches dealt only with the public welfare. It was said that while the public welfare was threatened by shortages of transportation, railroads were destroying one another through vicious competition, on “the brutal policy of dog-eat-dog.” While there existed blighted areas where rail service had been discontinued, there existed at the same time large regions where two or more railroads were competing for a traffic barely sufficient for one. It was said that there were great opportunities for younger railroads in the blighted areas. While it was true that such areas offered little economic incentive at present, a public-spirited railroad, it was said, would undertake to provide transportation for the struggling inhabitants, since the prime purpose of a railroad was public service, not profit.

Then it was said that large, established railroad systems were essential to the public welfare; and that the collapse of one of them would be a national catastrophe; and that if one such system had happened to sustain a crushing loss in a public-spirited attempt to contribute to international good will, it was entitled to public support to help it survive the blow.

No railroad was mentioned by name. But when the chairman of the meeting raised his hand, as a solemn signal that they were about to vote, everybody looked at Dan Conway, president of the Phoenix-Durango.

There were only five dissenters who voted against it. Yet when the chairman announced that the measure had passed, there was no cheering, no sounds of approval, no movement, nothing but a heavy silence. To the last minute, every one of them had hoped that someone would save them from it.

The Anti-dog-eat-dog Rule was described as a measure of “voluntary self-regulation” intended “the better to enforce” the laws long since passed by the country’s Legislature. The Rule provided that the members of the National Alliance of Railroads were forbidden to engage in practices defined as “destructive competition”; that in regions declared to be restricted, no more than one railroad would be permitted to operate; that in such regions, seniority belonged to the oldest railroad now operating there, and that the newcomers, who had encroached unfairly upon its territory, would suspend operations within nine months after being so ordered; that the Executive Board of the National Alliance of Railroads was empowered to decide, at its sole discretion, which regions were to be restricted.

When the meeting adjourned, the men hastened to leave. There were no private discussions, no friendly loitering. The great hall became deserted in an unusually short time. Nobody spoke to or looked at Dan Conway.

In the lobby of the building, James Taggart met Orren Boyle. They had made no appointment to meet, but Taggart saw a bulky figure outlined against a marble wall and knew who it was before he saw the face. They approached each other, and Boyle said, his smile less soothing than usual, “I’ve delivered. Your turn now, Jimmie.” “You didn’t have to come here. Why did you?” said Taggart sullenly. “Oh, just for the fun of it,” said Boyle.

Dan Conway sat alone among rows of empty seats. He was still there when the charwoman came to clean the hall. When she hailed him, he rose obediently and shuffled to the door. Passing her in the aisle, he fumbled in his pocket and handed her a five dollar bill, silently, meekly, not looking at her face. He did not seem to know what he was doing; he acted as if he thought that he was in some place where generosity demanded that he give a tip before leaving.

Dagny was still at her desk when the door of her office flew open and James Taggart rushed in. It was the first time he had ever entered in such manner. His face looked feverish.

She had not seen him since the nationalization of the San Sebastián Line. He had not sought to discuss it with her, and she had said nothing about it. She had been proved right so eloquently, she had thought, that comments were unnecessary. A feeling which was part courtesy, part mercy had stopped her from stating to him the conclusion to be drawn from the events. In all reason and justice, there was but one conclusion he could draw. She had heard about his speech to the Board of Directors. She had shrugged, contemptuously amused; if it served his purpose, whatever that was, to appropriate her achievements, then, for his own advantage, if for no other reason, he would leave her free to achieve, from now on.