Atlas Shrugged (86 page)

“Why, yes, Mr. Rearden, but—”

“What else do you want to hear?”

“But that was five months ago, Mr. Rearden. A certain event has taken place since, which makes me quite sure that you have changed your mind and that you will make no trouble for us at all, just as we will make no trouble for you.”

“What event?”

“An event of which you have far greater knowledge than I—but, you see, I do have knowledge of it, even though you would much prefer me to have none.”

.“What event?”

“Since it is your secret, Mr. Rearden, why not let it remain a secret? Who doesn’t have secrets nowadays? For instance, Project X is a secret. You realize, of course, that we could obtain your Metal simply by having it purchased in smaller quantities by various government offices who would then transfer it to us—and you would not be able to prevent it. But this would necessitate our letting a lot of lousy bureaucrats”—Dr. Ferris smiled with disarming frankness—“oh yes, we are as unpopular with one another as we are with you private citizens—it would necessitate our letting a lot of other bureaucrats in on the secret of Project X, which would be highly undesirable at this time. And so would any newspaper publicity about the Project—if we put you on trial for refusal to comply with a government order. But if you had to stand trial on another, much more serious charge, where Project X and the State Science Institute were not involved, and where you could not raise any issue of principle or arouse any public sympathy—why, that would not inconvenience us at all, but it would cost you more than you would care to contemplate. Therefore, the only practical thing for you to do is to help us keep our secret and get us to help you keep yours—and, as I’m sure you realize, we are fully able to keep any of the bureaucrats safely off your trail for as long as we wish.”

“What event, what secret and what trail?”

“Oh, come, Mr. Rearden, don’t be childish! The four thousand tons of Rearden Metal which you delivered to Ken Danagger, of course,” said Dr. Ferris lightly.

Rearden did not answer.

“Issues of principle are such a nuisance,” said Dr. Ferris, smiling, “and such a waste of time for all concerned. Now would you care to be a martyr for an issue of principle, only in circumstances where nobody will know that that’s what you are—nobody but you and me—where you won’t get a chance to breathe a word about the issue or the principle—where you won’t be a hero, the creator of a spectacular new metal, making a stand against enemies whose actions might appear somewhat shabby in the eyes of the public—where you won’t be a hero, but a common criminal, a greedy industrialist who’s cheated the law for a plain motive of profit, a racketeer of the black market who’s broken the national regulations designed to protect the public welfare—a hero without glory and without public, who’ll accomplish no more than about half a column of newsprint somewhere on page five—now would you still care to be that kind of martyr? Because that’s just what the issue amounts to now: either you let us have the Metal or you go to jail for ten years and take your friend Danagger along, too.”

As a biologist, Dr. Ferris had always been fascinated by the theory that animals had the capacity to smell fear; he had tried to develop a similar capacity in himself. Watching Rearden, he concluded that the man had long since decided to give in—because he caught no trace of any fear.

“Who was your informer?” asked Rearden.

“One of your friends, Mr. Rearden. The owner of a copper mine in Arizona, who reported to us that you had purchased an extra amount of copper last month, above the regular tonnage required for the monthly quota of Rearden Metal which the law permits you to produce. Copper is one of the ingredients of Rearden Metal, isn’t it? That was all the information we needed. The rest was easy to trace. You mustn’t blame that mine owner too much. The copper producers, as you know, are being squeezed so badly right now that the man had to offer something of value in order to obtain a favor, an .‘emergency need’ ruling which suspended a few of the directives in his case and gave him a little breathing spell. The person to whom he traded his information knew where it would have the highest value, so he traded it to me, in return for certain favors he needed. So all the necessary evidence, as well as the next ten years of your life, are now in my possession—and I am offering you a trade. I’m sure you won’t object, since trade is your specialty. The form may be a little different from what it was in your youth—but you’re a smart trader, you’ve always known how to take advantage of changing conditions, and these are the conditions of our day, so it should not be difficult for you to see where your interests lie and to act accordingly.”

Rearden said calmly, “In my youth, this was called blackmail.”

Dr. Ferris grinned. “That’s what it is, Mr. Rearden. We’ve entered a much more realistic age.”

But there was a peculiar difference, thought Rearden, between the manner of a plain blackmailer and that of Dr. Ferris. A blackmailer would show signs of gloating over his victim’s sin and of acknowledging its evil, he would suggest a threat to the victim and a sense of danger to them both. Dr. Ferris conveyed none of it. His manner was that of dealing with the normal and the natural, it suggested a sense of safety, it held no tone of condemnation, but a hint of comradeship, a comradeship based—for both of them—on self-contempt. The sudden feeling that made Rearden lean forward in a posture of eager attentiveness, was the feeling that he was about to discover another step along his half-glimpsed trail.

Seeing Rearden’s look of interest, Dr. Ferris smiled and congratulated himself on having caught the right key. The game was clear to him now, the markings of the pattern were falling in the right order; some men, thought Dr. Ferris, would do anything so long as it was left unnamed, but this man wanted frankness, this was the tough realist he had expected to find.

“You’re a practical man, Mr. Rearden,” said Dr. Ferris amiably. “I can’t understand why you should want to stay behind the times. Why don’t you adjust yourself and play it right? You’re smarter than most of them. You’re a valuable person, we’ve wanted you for a long time, and when I heard that you were trying to string along with Jim Taggart, I knew you could be had. Don’t bother with Jim Taggart, he’s nothing, he’s just flea-bait. Get into the big game. We can use you and you can use us. Want us to step on Orren Boyle for you? He’s given you an awful beating, want us to trim him down a little? It can be done. Or want us to keep Ken Danagger in line? Look how impractical you’ve been about that. I know why you sold him the Metal—it’s because you need him to get coal from. So you take a chance on going to jail and paying huge fines, just to keep on the good side of Ken Danagger. Do you call that good business? Now, make a deal with us and just let Mr. Danagger understand that if he doesn’t toe the line,
he’ll
go to jail, but
you
won.‘t, because you’ve got friends he hasn’t got—and you’ll never have to worry about your coal supply from then on. Now
that’s
the modern way of doing business. Ask yourself which way is more practical. And whatever anyone’s said about you, nobody’s ever denied that you’re a great businessman and a hard-headed realist.”

“That’s what I am,” said Rearden.

“That’s what I thought,” said Dr. Ferris. “You rose to riches in an age when most men were going bankrupt, you’ve always managed to blast obstacles, to keep your mills going and to make money—that’s your reputation—so you wouldn’t want to be impractical now, would you? What for? What do you care, so long as you make money? Leave the theories to people like Bertram Scudder and the ideals to people like Balph Eubank—and be yourself. Come down to earth. You’re not the man who’d let sentiment interfere with business.”

“No,” said Rearden slowly, “I wouldn’t. Not any kind of sentiment.”

Dr. Ferris smiled. “Don’t you suppose we knew it?” he said, his tone suggesting that he was letting his patent-leather hair down to impress a fellow criminal by a display of superior cunning. “We’ve waited a long time to get something on you. You honest men are such a problem and such a headache. But we knew you’d slip sooner or later—and this is just what we wanted.”

“You seem to be pleased about it.”

“Don’t I have good reason to be?”

“But, after all, I did break one of your laws.”

“Well, what do you think they’re for?”

Dr. Ferris did not notice the sudden look on Rearden’s face, the look of a man hit by the first vision of that which he had sought to see. Dr. Ferris was past the stage of seeing; he was intent upon delivering the last blows to an animal caught in a trap.

“Did you really think that we want those laws to be observed?” said Dr. Ferris. “We
want
them broken. You’d better get it straight that it’s not a bunch of boy scouts you’re up against—then you’ll know that this is not the age for beautiful gestures. We’re after power and we mean it. You fellows were pikers, but we know the real trick, and you’d better get wise to it. There’s no way to rule innocent men. The only power any government has is the power to crack down on criminals. Well, when there aren’t enough criminals, one
makes
them. One declares so many things to be a crime that it becomes impossible for men to live without breaking laws. Who wants a nation of law-abiding citizens? What’s there in that for anyone? But just pass the kind of laws that can neither be observed nor enforced nor objectively interpreted—and you create a nation of law-breakers—and then you cash in on guilt. Now that’s the system, Mr. Rearden, that’s the game, and once you understand it, you’ll be much easier to deal with.”

Watching Dr. Ferris watch him, Rearden saw the sudden twitch of anxiety, the look that precedes panic, as if a clean card had fallen on the table from a deck Dr. Ferris had never seen before.

What Dr. Ferris was seeing in Rearden’s face was the look of luminous serenity that comes from the sudden answer to an old, dark problem, a look of relaxation and eagerness together; there was a youthful clarity in Rearden’s eyes and the faintest touch of contempt in the line of his mouth. Whatever this meant—and Dr. Ferris could not decipher it -he was certain of one thing: the face held no sign of guilt.

“There’s a flaw in your system, Dr. Ferris,” Rearden said quietly, almost lightly, “a practical flaw which you will discover when you put me on trial for selling four thousand tons of Rearden Metal to Ken Danagger.”

It took twenty seconds—Rearden could feel them moving past slowly—at the end of which Dr. Ferris became convinced that he had heard Rearden’s final decision.

“Do you think we’re bluffing?” snapped Dr. Ferris; his voice suddenly had the quality of the animals he had spent so much time studying: it sounded as if he were baring his teeth.

“I don’t know,” said Rearden. “I don’t care, one way or the other.”

“Are you going to be as impractical as that?”

“The evaluation of an action as ‘practical,’ Dr. Ferris, depends on what it is that one wishes to practice.”

“Haven’t you always placed your self-interest above all else?”

“That is what I am doing right now.”

“If you think we’ll let you get away with a—”

“You will now please get out of here.”

“Whom do you think you’re fooling?” Dr. Ferris’ voice had risen close to the edge of a scream. “The day of the barons of industry is done! You’ve got the goods, but we’ve got the goods on you, and you’re going to play it our way or you.‘ll—”

Rearden had pressed a button; Miss Ives entered the office.

“Dr. Ferris has become confused and has lost his way, Miss Ives,” said Rearden. “Will you escort him out please?” He turned to Ferris. “Miss Ives is a woman, she weighs about a hundred pounds, and she has no practical qualifications at all, only a superlative intellectual efficiency. She would never do for a bouncer in a saloon, only in an impractical place, such as a factory.”

Miss Ives looked as if she was performing a duty of no greater emotional significance than taking dictation about a list of shipping invoices. Standing straight in a disciplined manner of icy formality, she held the door open, let Dr. Ferris cross the room, then walked out first; Dr. Ferris followed.

She came back a few minutes later, laughing in uncontrollable exultation.

“Mr. Rearden,” she asked, laughing at her fear for him, at their danger, at everything but the triumph of the moment, “what is it you’re doing?”

He sat in a pose he had never permitted himself before, a pose he had resented as the most vulgar symbol of the businessman—he sat leaning back in his chair, with his feet on his desk—and it seemed to her that the posture had an air of peculiar nobility, that it was not the pose of a stuffy executive, but of a young crusader.

“I think I’m discovering a new continent, Gwen,” he answered cheerfully. “A continent that should have been discovered along with America, but wasn’t.”

“I have to speak of it to
you
,” said Eddie Willers, looking at the worker across the table. “I don’t know why it helps me, but it does—just to know that you’re hearing me.”