Motive power-thought Dagny, looking up at the Taggart Building in the twilight-was its first need; motive power, to keep that building standing; movement, to keep it immovable. It did not rest on piles driven into granite; it rested on the engines that rolled across a continent.  She felt a dim touch of anxiety. She was back from a trip to the plant of the United Locomotive Works in New Jersey, where she had gone to see the president of the company in person. She had learned nothing: neither the reason for the delays nor any indication of the date when the Diesel engines would be produced. The president of the company had talked to her for two hours. But none of his answers had connected to any of her questions. His manner had conveyed a peculiar note of condescending reproach whenever she attempted to make the conversation specific, as if she were giving proof of ill-breeding by breaking some unwritten code known to everyone else.  On her way through the plant, she had seen an enormous piece of machinery left abandoned in a corner of the yard. It had been a precision machine tool once, long ago, of a kind that could not be bought anywhere now. It had not been worn out; it had been rotted by neglect, eaten by rust and the black drippings of a dirty oil. She had turned her face away from it. A sight of that nature always blinded her for an instant by the burst of too violent an anger. She did not know why; she could not define her own feeling; she knew only that there was, in her feeling, a scream of protest against injustice, and that it was a response to something much beyond an old piece of machinery.  The rest of her staff had gone, when she entered the anteroom of her office, but Eddie Willers was still there, waiting for her. She knew at once that something had happened, by the way he looked and the way he followed her silently into her office.  "What's the matter, Eddie?"  "McNamara quit."  She looked at him blankly. "What do you mean, quit?"  "Left. Retired. Went out of business."  "McNamara, our contractor?"  "Yes"  "But that's impossible!"  "I know it."  "What happened? Why?"  "Nobody knows."  Taking her time deliberately, she unbuttoned her coat, sat down at her desk, started to pull off her gloves. Then she said, "Begin at the beginning, Eddie. Sit down."  He spoke quietly, but he remained standing. "I talked to his chief engineer, long distance. The chief engineer called from Cleveland, to tell us. That's all he said. He knew nothing else."  "What did he say?"  "That McNamara has closed his business and gone."  "Where?"  "He doesn't know. Nobody knows."  She noticed that she was holding with one hand two empty fingers of the glove of the other, the glove half-removed and forgotten. She pulled it off and dropped it on the desk.  Eddie said, "He's walked out on a pile of contracts that are worth a fortune. He had a waiting list of clients for the next three years. . . ."  She said nothing. He added, his voice low, "I wouldn't be frightened if I could understand it. . . . But a thing that can't have any possible reason . . ." She remained silent. "He was the best contractor in the country."  They looked at each other. What she wanted to say was, "Oh God, Eddie!" Instead, her voice even, she said, "Don't worry. We'll find another contractor for the Rio Norte Line,"  It was late when she left her office. Outside, on the sidewalk at the door of the building, she paused, looking at the streets. She felt suddenly empty of energy, of purpose, of desire, as if a motor had crackled and stopped.  A faint glow streamed from behind the buildings into the sky, the reflection of thousands of unknown lights, the electric breath of the city.  She wanted to rest. To rest, she thought, and to find enjoyment somewhere.  Her work was all she had or wanted. But there were times, like tonight, when she felt that sudden, peculiar emptiness, which was not emptiness, but silence, not despair, but immobility, as if nothing within her were destroyed, but everything stood still. Then she felt the wish to find a moment's joy outside, the wish to be held as a passive spectator by some work or sight of greatness. Not to make it, she thought, but to accept; not to begin, but to respond; not to create, but to admire. I need it to let me go on, she thought, because joy is one's fuel.  She had always been-she closed her eyes with a faint smile of amusement and pain-the motive power of her own happiness. For once, she wanted to feel herself carried by the power of someone else's achievement. As men on a dark prairie liked to see the lighted windows of a train going past, her achievement, the sight of power and purpose that gave them reassurance in the midst of empty miles and night -so she wanted to feel it for a moment, a brief greeting, a single glimpse, just to wave her arm and say: Someone is going somewhere. . . .  She started walking slowly, her hands in the pockets of her coat, the shadow of her slanting hat brim across her face. The buildings around her rose to such heights that her glance could not find the sky. She thought: It has taken so much to build this city, it should have so much to offer.  Above the door of a shop, the black hole of a radio loudspeaker was hurling sounds at the streets. They were the sounds of a symphony concert being given somewhere in the city. They were a long screech without shape, as of cloth and flesh being torn at random. They scattered with no melody, no harmony, no rhythm to hold them. If music was emotion and emotion came from thought, then this was the scream of chaos, of the irrational, of the helpless, of man's self-abdication.  She walked on. She stopped at the window of a bookstore. The window displayed a pyramid of slabs in brownish-purple jackets, inscribed: The Vulture Is Molting. "The novel of our century," said a placard.  "The penetrating study of a businessman's greed. A fearless revelation of man's depravity."  She walked past a movie theater. Its lights wiped out half a block, leaving only a huge photograph and some letters suspended in blazing mid-air. The photograph was of a smiling young woman; looking at her face, one felt the weariness of having seen it for years, even while seeing it for the first time. The letters said: ". . . in a momentous drama giving the answer to the great problem: Should a woman tell?"  She walked past the door of a night club. A couple came staggering out to a taxicab. The girl had blurred eyes, a perspiring face, an ermine cape and a beautiful evening gown that had slipped off one shoulder like a slovenly housewife's bathrobe, revealing too much of her breast, not in a manner of daring, but in the manner of a drudge's indifference. Her escort steered her, gripping her naked arm; his face did not have the expression of a man anticipating a romantic adventure, but the sly look of a boy out to write obscenities on fences.  What had she hoped to find?-she thought, walking on. These were the things men lived by, the forms of their spirit, of their culture, of their enjoyment. She had seen nothing else anywhere, not for many years.  At the corner of the street where she lived, she bought a newspaper and went home.  Her apartment was two rooms on the top floor of a skyscraper. The sheets of glass in the corner window of her living room made it look like the prow of a ship in motion, and the lights of the city were like phosphorescent sparks on the black waves of steel and stone. When she turned on a lamp, long triangles of shadow cut the bare walls, in a geometrical pattern of light rays broken by a few angular pieces of furniture.  She stood in the middle of the room, alone between sky and city.  There was only one thing that could give her the feeling she wanted to experience tonight; it was the only form of enjoyment she had found.  She turned to a phonograph and put on a record of the music of Richard Halley.  It was his Fourth Concerto, the last work he had written. The crash of its opening chords swept the sights of the streets away from her mind.  The Concerto was a great cry of rebellion. It was a "No" flung at some vast process of torture, a denial of suffering, a denial that held the agony of the struggle to break free. The sounds were like a voice saying: There is no necessity for pain-why, then, is the worst pain reserved for those who will not accept its necessity?-we who hold the love and the secret of joy, to what punishment have we been sentenced for it, and by whom? . . . The sounds of torture became defiance, the statement of agony became a hymn to a distant vision for whose sake anything was worth enduring, even this. It was the song of rebellion-and of a desperate quest.  She sat still, her eyes closed, listening.  No one knew what had happened to Richard Halley, or why. The story of his life had been like a summary written to damn greatness by showing the price one pays for it. It had been a procession of years spent in garrets and basements, years that had taken the gray tinge of the walls imprisoning a man whose music overflowed with violent color.  It had been the gray of a struggle against long flights of unlighted tenement stairs, against frozen plumbing, against the price of a sandwich in an ill-smelling delicatessen store, against the faces of men who listened to music, their eyes empty. It had been a struggle without the relief of violence, without the recognition of finding a conscious enemy, with only a deaf wall to batter, a wall of the most effective soundproofing: indifference, that swallowed blows, chords and screams-a battle of silence, for a man who could give to sounds a greater eloquence than they had ever carried-the silence of obscurity, of loneliness, of the nights when some rare orchestra played one of his works and he looked at the darkness, knowing that his soul went in trembling, widening circles from a radio tower through the air of the city, but there were no receivers tuned to hear it.  "The music of Richard Halley has a quality of the heroic. Our age has outgrown that stuff," said one critic. "The music of Richard Halley is out of key with our times. It has a tone of ecstasy. Who cares for ecstasy nowadays?" said another.  His life had been a summary of the lives of all the men whose reward is a monument in a public park a hundred years after the time when a reward can matter-except that Richard Halley did not die soon enough. He lived to see the night which, by the accepted laws of history, he was not supposed to see. He was forty-three years old and it was the opening night of Phaethon, an opera he had written at the age of twenty-four. He had changed the ancient Greek myth to his own purpose and meaning: Phaethon, the young son of Helios, who stole his father's chariot and, in ambitious audacity, attempted to drive the sun across the sky, did not perish, as he perished in the myth; in Halley's opera, Phaethon succeeded. The opera had been performed then, nineteen years ago, and had closed after one performance, to the sound of booing and catcalls. That night, Richard Halley had walked the streets of the city till dawn, trying to find an answer to a question, which he did not find.  On the night when the opera was presented again, nineteen years later, the last sounds of the music crashed into the sounds of the greatest ovation the opera house had ever heard. The ancient walls could not contain it, the sounds of cheering burst through to the lobbies, to the stairs, to the streets, to the boy who had walked those streets nineteen years ago.  Dagny was in the audience on the night of the ovation. She was one of the few who had known the music of Richard Halley much earlier; but she had never seen him. She saw him being pushed out on the stage, saw him facing the enormous spread of waving arms and cheering heads. He stood without moving, a tall, emaciated man with graying hair. He did not bow, did not smile; he just stood there, looking at the crowd. His face had the quiet, earnest look of a man staring at a question.  "The music of Richard Halley," wrote a critic next morning, "belongs to mankind. It is the product and the expression of the greatness of the people." "There is an inspiring lesson," said a minister, "in the life of Richard Halley. He has had a terrible struggle, but what does that matter? It is proper, it is noble that he should have endured suffering, injustice, abuse at the hands of his brothers-in order to enrich their lives and teach them to appreciate the beauty of great music."  On the day after the opening, Richard Halley retired.  He gave no explanation. He merely told his publishers that his career was over. He sold them the rights to his works for a modest sum, even though he knew that his royalties would now bring him a fortune. He went away, leaving no address. It was eight years ago; no one had seen him since.  Dagny listened to the Fourth Concerto, her head thrown back, her eyes closed. She lay half-stretched across the corner of a couch, her body relaxed and still; but tension stressed the shape of her mouth on her motionless face, a sensual shape drawn in lines of longing.  After a while, she opened her eyes. She noticed the newspaper she had thrown down on the couch. She reached for it absently, to turn the vapid headlines out of sight. The paper fell open. She saw the photograph of a face she knew, and the heading of a story. She slammed the pages shut and flung them aside.  It was the face of Francisco d'Anconia. The heading said that he had arrived in New York. What of it?-she thought. She would not have to see him. She had not seen him for years.  She sat looking down at the newspaper on the floor. Don't read it, she thought; don't look at it. But the face, she thought, had not changed.  How could a face remain the same when everything else was gone? She wished they had not caught a picture of him when he smiled. That kind of smile did not belong in the pages of a newspaper. It was the smile of a man who is able to see, to know and to create the glory of existence. It was the mocking, challenging smile of a brilliant intelligence.  Don't read it, she thought; not now-not to that music-oh, not to that music!  She reached for the paper and opened it.  The story said that Senor Francisco d'Anconia had granted an interview to the press in his suite at the Wayne-Falkland Hotel. He said that he had come to New York for two important reasons: a hat-check girl at the Cub Club, and the liverwurst at Moe's Delicatessen on Third Avenue. He had nothing to say about the coming divorce trial of Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert Vail. Mrs. Vail, a lady of noble breeding and unusual loveliness, had taken a shot at her distinguished young husband, some months ago, publicly declaring that she wished to get rid of him for the sake of her lover, Francisco d'Anconia. She had given to the press a detailed account of her secret romance, including a description of the night of last New Year's Eve which she had spent at d'Anconia's villa in the Andes. Her husband had survived the shot and had sued for divorce.  She had countered with a suit for half of her husband's millions, and with a recital of his private life which, she said, made hers look innocent.  All of that had been splashed over the newspapers for weeks. But Senor d'Anconia had nothing to say about it, when the reporters questioned him. Would he deny Mrs. Vail's story, they asked. "I never deny anything," he answered. The reporters had been astonished by his sudden arrival in town; they had thought that he would not wish to be there just when the worst of the scandal was about to explode on the front pages. But they had been wrong. Francisco d'Anconia added one more comment to the reasons for his arrival. "I wanted to witness the farce," he said.  Dagny let the paper slip to the floor. She sat, bent over, her head on her arms. She did not move, but the strands of hair, hanging down to her knees, trembled in sudden jolts once in a while.  The great chords of Halley's music went on, filling the room, piercing the glass of the windows, streaming out over the city. She was hearing the music. It was her quest, her cry.  James Taggart glanced about the living room of his apartment, wondering what time it was; he did not feel like moving to find his watch.  He sat in an armchair, dressed in wrinkled pajamas, barefooted; it was too much trouble to look for his slippers. The light of the gray sky in the windows hurt his eyes, still sticky with sleep. He felt, inside his skull, the nasty heaviness which is about to become a headache. He wondered angrily why he had stumbled out into the living room. Oh yes, he remembered, to look for the time.  He slumped sidewise over the arm of the chair and caught sight of a clock on a distant building: it was twenty minutes past noon.  Through the open door of the bedroom, he heard Betty Pope washing her teeth in the bathroom beyond. Her girdle lay on the floor, by the side of a chair with the rest of her clothes; the girdle was a faded pink, with broken strands of rubber.  "Hurry up, will you?" he called irritably. "I've got to dress,"  She did not answer. She had left the door of the bathroom open; he could hear the sound of gargling.  Why do I do those things?-he thought, remembering last night. But it was too much trouble to look for an answer.  Betty Pope came into the living room, dragging the folds of a satin negligee harlequin-checkered in orange and purple. She looked awful in a negligee, thought Taggart; she was ever so much better in a riding habit, in the photographs on the society pages of the newspapers. She was a lanky girl, all bones and loose joints that did not move smoothly.  She had a homely face, a bad complexion and a look of impertinent condescension derived from the fact that she belonged to one of the very best families.  "Aw, hell!" she said at nothing in particular, stretching herself to limber up. "Jim, where are your nail clippers? I've got to trim my toenails."  "I don't know. I have a headache. Do it at home."  "You look unappetizing in the morning." she said indifferently. "You look like a snail."  "Why don't you shut up?"  She wandered aimlessly about the room. "I don't want to go home," she said with no particular feeling. "I hate morning. Here's another day and nothing to do. I've got a tea session on for this afternoon, at Liz Blane's. Oh well, it might be fun, because Liz is a bitch." She picked up a glass and swallowed the stale remnant of a drink. "Why don't you have them repair your air-conditioner? This place smells."  "Are you through in the bathroom?" he asked. "I have to dress. I have an important engagement today."  "Go right in. I don't mind. I'll share the bathroom with you. I hate to be rushed."  While he shaved, he saw her dressing in front of the open bathroom door. She took a long time twisting herself into her girdle, hooking garters to her stockings, pulling on an ungainly, expensive tweed suit.  The harlequin negligee, picked from an advertisement in the smartest fashion magazine, was like a uniform which she knew to be expected on certain occasions, which she had worn dutifully for a specified purpose and then discarded.  The nature of their relationship had the same quality. There was no passion in it, no desire, no actual pleasure, not even a sense of shame.  To them, the act of sex was neither joy nor sin. It meant nothing. They had heard that men and women were supposed to sleep together, so they did.  "Jim, why don't you take me to the Armenian restaurant tonight?" she asked. "I love shish-kebab."  "I can't," he answered angrily through the soap lather on his face.  "I've got a busy day ahead."  "Why don't you cancel it?"  "What?"  "Whatever it is."  "It is very important, my dear. It is a meeting of our Board of Directors."  "Oh, don't be stuffy about your damn railroad. It's boring. I hate businessmen. They're dull."  He did not answer.  She glanced at him slyly, and her voice acquired a livelier note when she drawled, "Jock Benson said that you have a soft snap on that railroad anyway, because it's your sister who runs the whole works."  "Oh, he did, did he?"  "I think that your sister is awful. I think it's disgusting-a woman acting like a grease-monkey and posing around like a big executive. It's so unfeminine. Who does she think she is, anyway?"  Taggart stepped out to the threshold. He leaned against the doorjamb, studying Betty Pope. There was a faint smile on his face, sarcastic and confident. They had, he thought, a bond in common.  "It might interest you to know, my dear," he said, "that I'm putting the skids under my sister this afternoon."  "No?" she said, interested. "Really?"  "And that is why this Board meeting is so important."  "Are you really going to kick her out?"  "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 Sebastian Mines and the San Sebastian 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 Sebastian 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 Sebastian 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 Senior 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 tune, 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 Sebastian 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.  "So you think you're the only one who's doing anything for this railroad?"  She looked at him, bewildered. His voice was shrill; he stood in front of her desk, tense with excitement.  "So you think that I've ruined the company, don't you?" he yelled.  "And now you're the only one who can save us? Think I have no way to make up for the Mexican loss?"  She asked slowly, "What do you want?"  "I want to tell you some news. Do you remember the Anti-dog-eat dog proposal of the Railroad Alliance that I told you about months ago?  You didn't like the idea. You didn't like it at all."  "I remember. What about it?"  "It has been passed."  "What has been passed?"  "The Anti-dog-eat-dog Rule. Just a few minutes ago. At the meeting.  Nine months from now, there's not going to be any Phoenix-Durango Railroad in Colorado!"  A glass ashtray crashed to the floor off the desk, as she leaped to her feet.  "You rotten bastards!"  He stood motionless. He was smiling.  She knew that she was shaking, open to him, without defense, and that this was the sight he enjoyed, but it did not matter to her. Then she saw his smile-and suddenly the blinding anger vanished. She felt nothing. She studied that smile with a cold, impersonal curiosity.  They stood facing each other. He looked as if, for the first time, he was not afraid of her. He was gloating. The event meant something to him much beyond the destruction of a competitor. It was not a victory over Dan Conway, but over her. She did not know why or in what manner, but she felt certain that he knew.  For the flash of one instant, she thought that here, before her, in James Taggart and in that which made him smile, was a secret she had never suspected, and it was crucially important that she learn to understand it. But the thought flashed and vanished.  She whirled to the door of a closet and seized her coat.  "Where are you going?" Taggart's voice had dropped; it sounded disappointed and faintly worried.  She did not answer. She rushed out of the office.  "Dan, you have to fight them. I'll help you. I'll fight for you with everything I've got."  Dan Conway shook his head.  He sat at his desk, the empty expanse of a faded blotter before him, one feeble lamp lighted in a corner of the room. Dagny had rushed straight to the city office of the Phoenix-Durango. Conway was there, and he still sat as she had found him. He had smiled at her entrance and said, "Funny, I thought you would come," his voice gentle, lifeless.  They did not know each other well, but they had met a few times in Colorado.  "No," he said, "it's no use."  "Do you mean because of that Alliance agreement that you signed?  It won't hold. This is plain expropriation. No court will uphold it. And if Jim tries to hide behind the usual looters' slogan of 'public welfare,'  I'll go on the stand and swear that Taggart Transcontinental can't handle the whole traffic of Colorado, And if any court rules against you, you can appeal and keep on appealing for the next ten years."  "Yes," he said, "I could . . . I'm not sure I'd win, but I could try and I could hang onto the railroad for a few years longer, but . . . No, it's not the legal points that I'm thinking about, one way or the other. It's not that."  "What, then?"  "I don't want to fight it, Dagny."  She looked at him incredulously. It was the one sentence which, she felt sure, he had never uttered before; a man could not reverse himself so late in life.  Dan Conway was approaching fifty. He had the square, stolid, stubborn face of a tough freight engineer, rather than a company president; the face of a fighter, with a young, tanned skin and graying hair. He had taken over a shaky little railroad in Arizona, a road whose net revenue was "less than that of a successful grocery store, and he had built it into the best railroad of the Southwest. He spoke little, seldom read books, had never gone to college. The whole sphere of human endeavors, with one exception, left him blankly indifferent; he had no touch of that which people called culture. But he knew railroads.  "Why don't you want to fight?"  "Because they had the right to do it."  "Dan," she asked, "have you lost your mind?"  "I've never gone back on my word in my life," he said tonelessly. "I don't care what the courts decide. I promised to obey the majority. I have to obey."  "Did you expect the majority to do this to you?"  "No." There was a kind of faint convulsion in the stolid face. He spoke softly, not looking at her, the helpless astonishment still raw within him. "No, I didn't expect it. I heard them talking about it for over a year, but I didn't believe it. Even when they were voting, I didn't believe it."  "What did you expect?"  "I thought . . . They said all of us were to stand for the common good. I thought what I had done down there in Colorado was good.  Good for everybody."  "Oh, you damn fool! Don't you see that that's what you're being punished for-because it was good?"  He shook his head. "I don't understand it," he said. "But I see no way out."  "Did you promise them to agree to destroy yourself?"  "There doesn't seem to be any choice for any of us."  "What do you mean?"  "Dagny, the whole world's in a terrible state right now. I don't know what's wrong with it, but something's very wrong. Men have to get together and find a way out. But who's to decide which way to take, unless it's the majority? I guess that's the only fair method of deciding, I don't see any other. I suppose somebody's got to be sacrificed. If it turned out to be me, I have no right to complain. The right's on their side. Men have to get together."  She made an effort to speak calmly; she was trembling with anger.  "If that's the price of getting together, then I'll be damned if I want to live on the same earth with any human beings! If the rest of them can survive only by destroying us, then why should we wish them to survive?  Nothing can make self-immolation proper. Nothing can give them the right to turn men into sacrificial animals. Nothing can make it moral to destroy the best. One can't be punished for being good. One can't be penalized for ability. If that is right, then we'd better start slaughtering one another, because there isn't any right at all in the world!"  He did not answer. He looked at her helplessly.  "If it's that kind of world, how can we live in it?" she asked.  "I don't know . . ." he whispered.  "Dan, do you really think it's right? In all truth, deep down, do you think it's right?"  He closed his eyes. "No," he said. Then he looked at her and she saw a look of torture for the first time. "That's what I've been sitting here trying to understand. I know that I ought to think it's right-but I can't. It's as if my tongue wouldn't turn to say it. I keep seeing every tie of the track down there, every signal light, every bridge, every night that I spent when . . ." His head dropped down on his arms. "Oh God, it's so damn unjust!"  "Dan," she said through her teeth, "fight it."  He raised his head. His eyes were empty. "No," he said. "It would be wrong- I'm just selfish."  "Oh, damn that rotten tripe! You know better than that!"  "I don't know . . ." His voice was very tired. "I've been sitting here, trying to think about it . . . I don't know what is right any more. . . ."  He added, "I don't think I care."  She knew suddenly that all further words were useless and that Dan Conway would never be a man of action again. She did not know what made her certain of it. She said, wondering, "You've never given up in the face of a battle before."  "No, I guess I haven't. . . ." He spoke with a quiet, indifferent astonishment. "I've fought storms and floods and rock slides and rail fissure. . . . I knew how to do it, and I liked doing it. . . . But this kind of battle-it's one I can't fight."  "Why?"  "I don't know. Who knows why the world is what it if-? Oh, who is John Galt?"  She winced. "Then what are you going to do?"  "I don't know . . .'"  "I mean-" She stopped.  He knew what she meant. "Oh, there's always something to do. . . ."  He spoke without conviction. "I guess it's only Colorado and New Mexico that they're going to declare restricted. I'll still have the line in Arizona to run." He added, "As it was twenty years ago . . .  Well, it will keep me busy. I'm getting tired, Dagny. I didn't take time to notice it, but I guess I am."  She could say nothing.  "I'm not going to build a line through one of their blighted areas," he said in the same indifferent voice. "That's what they tried to hand me for a consolation prize, but I think it's just talk. You can't  build a railroad where there's nothing for hundreds of miles but a couple of farmers who're not growing enough to feed themselves. You can't build a road and make it pay. If you don't make it pay, who's going to? It doesn't make sense to me. They just didn't know what they were saying."  "Oh, to hell with their blighted areas! It's you I'm thinking about."  She had to name it. "What will you do with yourself?"  "I don't know . . . Well, there's a lot of things I haven't had time to do. Fishing, for instance. I've always liked fishing. Maybe I'll start reading books, always meant to. Guess I'll take it easy now. Guess I'll go fishing. There's some nice places down in Arizona, where it's peaceful and quiet and you don't have to see a human being for miles. . . ."  He glanced up at her and added, "Forget it. Why should you worry about me?"  "It's not about you, it's . . . Dan," she said suddenly, "I hope you know it's not for your sake that I wanted to help you fight."  He smiled; it was a faint, friendly smile. "I know," he said.  "It's not out of pity or charity or any ugly reason like that. Look, I intended to give you the battle of your life, down there in Colorado.  I intended to cut into your business and squeeze you to the wall and drive you out, if necessary,"  He chuckled faintly; it was appreciation. "You would have made a pretty good try at it, too," he said.  "Only I didn't think it would be necessary. I thought there was enough room there for both of us."  "Yes," he said. "There was."  "Still, if I found that there wasn't, I would have fought you, and if I could make my road better than yours, I'd have broken you and not given a damn about what happened to you. But this . . . Dan, I don't think I want to look at our Rio Norte Line now. I . . . Oh God, Dan, I don't want to be a looter!"  He looked at her silently for a moment. It was an odd look, as if from a great distance. He said softly, "You should have been born about a hundred years earlier, kid. Then you would have had a chance."  "To hell with that. I intend to make my own chance."  "That's what I intended at your age."  "You succeeded."  "Have I?"  She sat still, suddenly unable to move.  He sat up straight and said sharply, almost as if he were issuing orders, "You'd better look at that Rio Norte Line of yours, and you'd better do it fast. Get it ready before I move out, because if you don't, that will be the end of Ellis Wyatt and all the rest of them down there, and they're the best people left in the country. You can't let that happen. It's all on your shoulders now. It would be no use trying to explain to your brother that it's going to be much tougher for you down there without me to compete with. But you and I know it. So go to it. Whatever you do, you won't be a looter. No looter could run a railroad in that part of the country and last at it. Whatever you make down there, you will have earned it. Lice like your brother don't count, anyway. It's up to you now."  She sat looking at him, wondering what it was that had defeated a man of this kind; she knew that it was not James Taggart.  She saw him looking at her, as if he were struggling with a question mark of his own. Then he smiled, and she saw, incredulously, that the smile held sadness and pity.  "You'd better not feel sorry for me," he said. "I think, of the two of us, it's you who have the harder time ahead. And I think you're going to get it worse than I did."  She had telephoned the mills and made an appointment to see Hank Rearden that afternoon. She had just hung up the receiver and was bending over the maps of the Rio Norte Line spread on her desk, when the door opened. Dagny looked up, startled; she did not expect the door of her office to open without announcement.  The man who entered was a stranger. He was young, tall, and something about him suggested violence, though she could not say what it was, because the first trait one grasped about him was a quality of self-control that seemed almost arrogant. He had dark eyes, disheveled hair, and his clothes were expensive, but worn as if he did not care or notice what he wore.  "Ellis Wyatt," he said in self-introduction.  She leaped to her feet, involuntarily. She understood why nobody had or could have stopped him in the outer office.  "Sit down, Mr. Wyatt," she said, smiling.  "It won't be necessary." He did not smile. "I don't hold long conferences."  Slowly, taking her time by conscious intention, she sat down and leaned back, looking at him.  "Well?" she asked.  "I came to see you because I understand you're the only one who's got any brains in this rotten outfit."  "What can I do for you?"  "You can listen to an ultimatum." He spoke distinctly, giving an unusual clarity to every syllable. "I expect Taggart Transcontinental, nine months from now, to run trains in Colorado as my business requires them to be run. If the snide stunt you people perpetrated on the Phoenix-Durango was done for the purpose of saving yourself from the necessity of effort, this is to give you notice that you will not get away with it. I made no demands on you when you could not give me the kind of service I needed. I found someone who could. Now you wish to force me to deal with you. You expect to dictate terms by leaving me no choice. You expect me to hold my business down to the level of your incompetence. This is to tell you that you have miscalculated."  She said slowly, with effort, "Shall I tell you what I intend to do about our service in Colorado?"  "No. I have no interest in discussions and intentions. I expect transportation. What you do to furnish it and how you do it, is your problem, not mine. I am merely giving you a warning. Those who wish to deal with me, must do so on my terms or not at all. I do not make terms with incompetence. If you expect to earn money by carrying the oil I produce, you must be as good at your business as I am at mine. I wish this to be understood."  She said quietly, "I understand."  "I shan't waste time proving to you why you'd better take my ultimatum seriously. If you have the intelligence to keep this corrupt organization functioning at all, you have the intelligence to judge this for yourself. We both know that if Taggart Transcontinental runs trains in Colorado the way it did five years ago, it will ruin me. I know that that is what you people intend to do. You expect to feed off me while you can and to find another carcass to pick dry after you have finished mine. That is the policy of most of mankind today. So here is my ultimatum: it is now in your power to destroy me; I may have to go; but if I go, I'll make sure that I take all the rest of you along with me."  Somewhere within her, under the numbness that held her still to receive the lashing, she felt a small point of pain, hot like the pain of scalding. She wanted to tell him of the years she had spent looking for men such as he to work with; she wanted to tell him that his enemies were hers, that she was fighting the same battle; she wanted to cry to him: I'm not one of them! But she knew that she could not do it. She bore the responsibility for Taggart Transcontinental and for everything done in its name; she had no right to justify herself now.  Sitting straight, her glance as steady and open as his, she answered evenly, "You will get the transportation you need, Mr. Wyatt."  She saw a faint hint of astonishment in his face; this was not the manner or the answer he had expected; perhaps it was what she had not said that astonished him most: that she offered no defense, no excuses. He took a moment to study her silently. Then he said, his voice less sharp: "All right. Thank you. Good day."  She inclined her head. He bowed and left the office.  "That's the story, Hank. I had worked out an almost impossible schedule to complete the Rio Norte Line in twelve months. Now I'll have to do it in nine. You were to give us the rail over a period of one year. Can you give it to us within nine months? If there's any human way to do it, do it. If not, I'll have to find some other means to finish it."  Rearden sat behind his desk. His cold, blue eyes made two horizontal cuts across the gaunt planes of his face; they remained horizontal, impassively half-closed; he said evenly, without emphasis: 'I'll do it."  Dagny leaned back in her chair. The short sentence was a shock. It was not merely relief: it was the sudden realization that nothing else was necessary to guarantee that it would be done; she needed no proofs, no questions, no explanations; a complex problem could rest safely on three syllables pronounced by a man who knew what he was saying.  "Don't show that you're relieved." His voice was mocking. "Not too obviously." His narrowed eyes were watching her with an unrevealing smile. "I might think that I hold Taggart Transcontinental in my power,"  "You know that, anyway."  "I do. And I intend to make you pay for it."  "I expect to. How much?"  "Twenty dollars extra per ton on the balance of the order delivered after today."  "Pretty steep, Hank. Is that the best price you can give me?"  "No. But that's the one I'm going to get. I could ask twice that and you'd pay it."  "Yes., I would. And you could. But you won't."  "Why won't I?"  "Because you need to have the Rio Norte Line built. It's your first showcase for Rearden Metal."  He chuckled. "That's right. I like to deal with somebody who has no illusions about getting favors."  "Do you know what made me feel relieved, when you decided to take advantage of it?"  "What?"  "That I was dealing, for once, with somebody who doesn't pretend to give favors."  His smile had a discernible quality now: it was enjoyment. "You always play it open, don't you?" he asked.  "I've never noticed you doing otherwise."  "I thought I was the only one who could afford to."  "I'm not broke, in that sense, Hank."  "I think I'm going to break you some day-in that sense."  "Why?"  "I've always wanted to."  "Don't you have enough cowards around you?"  "That's why I'd enjoy trying it-because you're the only exception. So you think it's right that I should squeeze every penny of profit I can, out of your emergency?"  "Certainly. I'm not a fool. I don't think you're in business for my convenience."  "Don't you wish I were?"  "I'm not a moocher, Hank."  "Aren't you going to find it hard to pay?"  "That's my problem, not yours. I want that rail."  "At twenty dollars extra per ton?"  "Okay, Hank."  "Fine. You'll get the rail. I may get my exorbitant profit-or Taggart Transcontinental may crash before I collect it."  She said, without smiling, "If I don't get that line built in nine months, Taggart Transcontinental will crash."  "It won't, so long as you run it."  When he did not smile, his face looked inanimate, only his eyes remained alive, active with a cold, brilliant clarity of perception. But what he was made to feel by the things he perceived, no one would be permitted to know, she thought, perhaps not even himself.  "They've done their best to make it harder for you, haven't they?" he said.  "Yes. I was counting on Colorado to save the Taggart system. Now it's up to me to save Colorado. Nine months from now, Dan Conway will close his road. If mine isn't ready, it won't be any use finishing it. You can't leave those men without transportation for a single day, let alone a week or a month. At the rate they've been growing, you can't stop them dead and then expect them to continue. It's like slamming brakes on an engine going two hundred miles an hour."  "I know."  "I can run a good railroad. I can't run it across a continent of sharecroppers who're not good enough to grow turnips successfully. I've got to have men like Ellis Wyatt to produce something to fill the trains I run. So I've got to give him a train and a track nine months from now, if I have to blast all the rest of us into hell to do it!"  He smiled, amused. "You feel very strongly about it, don't you?"  "Don't you?"  He would not answer, but merely held the smile.  "Aren't you concerned about it?" she asked, almost angrily.  "No."  "Then you don't realize what it means?"  "I realize that I'm going to get the rail rolled and you're going to get the track laid in nine months."  She smiled, relaxing, wearily and a little guiltily. "Yes. I know we will. I know it's useless-getting angry at people like Jim and his friends. We haven't any time for it. First, I have to undo what they've done. Then afterwards"-she stopped, wondering, shook her head and shrugged-"afterwards, they won't matter."  "That's right. They won't. When I heard about that Anti-dog-eat-dog business, it made me sick. But don't worry about the goddamn bastards."  The two words sounded shockingly violent, because his face and voice remained calm. "You and I will always be there to save the country from the consequences of their actions." He got up; he said, pacing the office, "Colorado isn't going to be stopped. You'll pull it through. Then Dan Conway will be back, and others. All that lunacy is temporary. It can't last. It's demented, so it has to defeat itself. You and I will just have to work a little harder for a while, that's all."  She watched his tall figure moving across the office. The office suited him; it contained nothing but the few pieces of furniture he needed, all of them harshly simplified down to their essential purpose, all of them exorbitantly expensive in the quality of materials and the skill of design.  The room looked like a motor-a motor held within the glass case of broad windows. But she noticed one astonishing detail: a vase of jade that stood on top of a filing cabinet. The vase was a solid, dark green stone carved into plain surfaces; the texture of its smooth curves provoked an irresistible desire to touch it. It seemed startling in that office, incongruous with the sternness of the rest: it was a touch of sensuality.  "Colorado is a great place," he said. "It's going to be the greatest in the country. You're not sure that I'm concerned about it? That state's becoming one of my best customers, as you ought to know if you take time to read the reports on your freight traffic."  "I know. I read them."  "I've been thinking of building a plant there in a few years. To save them your transportation charges." He glanced at her. "You'll lose an awful lot of steel freight, if I do."  "Go ahead. I'll be satisfied with carrying your supplies, and the groceries for your workers, and the freight of the factories that will follow you there-and perhaps I won't have time to notice that I've lost your steel. . . . What are you laughing at?"  "It's wonderful."  "What?"  "The way you don't react as everybody else does nowadays."  "Still, I must admit that for the time being you're the most important single shipper of Taggart Transcontinental."  "Don't you suppose I know it?"  "So I can't understand why Jim-" She stopped.  "-tries his best to harm my business? Because your brother Jim is a fool."  "He is. But it's more than that. There's something worse than stupidity about it."  "Don't waste time trying to figure him out. Let him spit. He's no danger to anyone. People like Jim Taggart just clutter up the world."  "I suppose so."  "Incidentally, what would you have done if I'd said I couldn't deliver your rails sooner?"  "I would have torn up sidings or closed some branch line, any branch line, and I would have used the rail to finish the Rio Norte track on time."  He chuckled. "That's why I'm not worried about Taggart Transcontinental. But you won't have to start getting rail out of old sidings. Not so long as I'm in business."  She thought suddenly that she was wrong about his lack of emotion: the hidden undertone of his manner was enjoyment. She realized that she had always felt a sense of light-hearted relaxation in his presence and known that he shared it. He was the only man she knew to whom she could speak without strain or effort. This, she thought, was a mind she respected, an adversary worth matching. Yet there had always been an odd sense of distance between them, the sense of a closed door; there was an impersonal quality in his manner, something within him that could not be reached.  He had stopped at the window. He stood for a moment, looking out. "Do you know that the first load of rail is being delivered to you today?" he asked, "Of course I know it."  "Come here."  She approached him. He pointed silently. Far in the distance, beyond the mill structures, she saw a string of gondolas waiting on a siding.  The bridge of an overhead crane cut the sky above them. The crane was moving. Its huge magnet held a load of rails glued to a disk by the sole power of contact. There was no trace of sun in the gray spread of clouds, yet the rails glistened, as if the metal caught light out of space. The metal was a greenish-blue. The great chain stopped over a car, descended, jerked in a brief spasm and left the rails in the car. The crane moved back in majestic indifference; it looked like the giant drawing of a geometrical theorem moving above the men and the earth.  They stood at the window, watching silently, intently. She did not speak, until another load of green-blue metal came moving across the sky. Then the first words she said were not about rail, track or an order completed on time. She said, as if greeting a new phenomenon of nature: "Rearden Metal . . ."  He noticed that, but said nothing. He glanced at her, then turned back to the window.  "Hank, this is great."  "Yes."  He said it simply, openly. There was no flattered pleasure in his voice, and no modesty. This, she knew, was a tribute to her, the rarest one person could pay another: the tribute of feeling free to acknowledge one's own greatness, knowing that it is understood.  She said, "When I think of what that metal can do, what it will make possible . . . Hank, this is the most important thing happening in the world today, and none of them know it."  "We know it."  They did not look at each other. They stood watching the crane. On the front of the locomotive in the distance, she could distinguish the letters TT. She could distinguish the rails of the busiest industrial siding of the Taggart system.  "As soon as I can find a plant able to do it," she said, "I'm going to order Diesels made of Rearden Metal."  "You'll need them. How fast do you run your trains on the Rio Norte track?"  "Now? We're lucky if we manage to make twenty miles an hour."  He pointed at the cars. "When that rail is laid, you'll be able to run trains at two hundred and fifty, if you wish."  "I will, in a few years, when we'll have cars of Rearden Metal, which will be half the weight of steel and twice as safe."  "You'll have to look out for the air lines. We're working on a plane of Rearden Metal. It will weigh practically nothing and lift anything.  You'll see the day of long-haul, heavy-freight air traffic."  "I've been thinking of what that metal will do for motors, any motors, and what sort of thing one can design now."  "Have you thought of what it will do for chicken wire? Just plain chicken-wire fences, made of Rearden Metal, that will cost a few pennies a mile and last two hundred years. And kitchenware that will be bought at the dime store and passed on from generation to generation. And ocean liners that one won't be able to dent with a torpedo."  "Did I tell you that I'm having tests made of communications wire of Rearden Metal?"  "I'm making so many tests that I'll never get through showing people what can be done with it and how to do it."  They spoke of the metal and of the possibilities which they could not exhaust. It was as if they were standing on a mountain top, seeing a limitless plain below and roads open in all directions. But they merely spoke of mathematical figures, of weights, pressures, resistances, costs.  She had forgotten her brother and his National Alliance. She had forgotten every problem, person and event behind her; they had always been clouded in her sight, to be hurried past, to be brushed aside, never final, never quite real. This was reality, she thought, this sense of clear outlines, of purpose, of lightness, of hope. This was the way she had expected to live-she had wanted to spend no hour and take no action that would mean less than this.  She looked at him in the exact moment when he turned to look at her. They stood very close to each other. She saw, in his eyes, that he felt as she did. If joy is the aim and the core of existence, she thought, and if that which has the power to give one joy is always guarded as one's deepest secret, then they had seen each other naked in that moment.  He made a step back and said in a strange tone of dispassionate wonder, "We're a couple of blackguards, aren't we?"  "Why?"  "We haven't any spiritual goals or qualities. All we're after is material things. That's all we care for."  She looked at him, unable to understand. But he was looking past her, straight ahead, at the crane in the distance. She wished he had not said it. The accusation did not trouble her, she never thought of herself in such terms and she was completely incapable of experiencing a feeling of fundamental guilt. But she felt a vague apprehension which she could not define, the suggestion that there was something of grave consequence in whatever had made him say it, something dangerous to him. He had not said it casually. But there had been no feeling in his voice, neither plea nor shame. He had said it indifferently, as a statement of fact.  Then, as she watched him, the apprehension vanished. He was looking at his mills beyond the window; there was no guilt in his face, no doubt, nothing but the calm of an inviolate self-confidence.  "Dagny" he said, "whatever we are, it's we who move the world and it's we who'll pull it through."