"God have mercy on us, ma'am!" said the clerk of the Hall of Records. "Nobody knows who owns that factory now. I guess nobody will ever know it."  The clerk sat at a desk in a ground-floor office, where dust lay undisturbed on the files and few visitors ever called. He looked at the shining automobile parked outside his window, in the muddy square that had once been the center of a prosperous county seat; he looked with a faint, wistful wonder at his two unknown visitors.  "Why?" asked Dagny.  He pointed helplessly at the mass of papers he had taken out of the files. "The court will have to decide who owns it, which I don't think any court can do. If a court ever gets to it. I don't think it will."  "Why? What happened?"  "Well, it was sold out-the Twentieth Century, I mean. The Twentieth Century Motor Company. It was sold twice, at the same time and to two different sets of owners. That was sort of a big scandal at the time, two years ago, and now it's just"-he pointed-"just a bunch of paper lying around, waiting for a court hearing. I don't see how any judge will be able to untangle any property rights out of it-or any right at all."  "Would you tell me please just what happened?"  "Well, the last legal owner of the factory was The People's Mortgage Company, of Rome, Wisconsin. That's the town the other side of the factory, thirty miles north. That Mortgage Company was a sort of noisy outfit that did a lot of advertising about easy credit. Mark Yonts was the head of it. Nobody knew where he came from and nobody knows where he's gone to now, but what they discovered, the morning after The People's Mortgage Company collapsed, was that Mark Yonts had sold the Twentieth Century Motor factory to a bunch of suckers from South Dakota, and that he'd also given it as collateral for a loan from a bank in Illinois. And when they took a look at the factory, they discovered that he'd moved all the machinery out and sold it piecemeal, God only knows where and to whom. So it seems like everybody owns the place-and nobody. That's how it stands now-the South Dakotans and the bank and the attorney for the creditors of The People's Mortgage Company all suing one another, all claiming this factory, and nobody having the right to move a wheel in it, except that there's no wheels left to move."  "Did Mark Yonts operate the factory before he sold it?"  "Lord, no, ma'am! He wasn't the kind that ever operates anything. He didn't want to make money, only to get it. Guess he got it, too-more than anyone could have made out of that factory."  He wondered why the blond, hard-faced man, who sat with the woman in front of his desk, looked grimly out the window at their car, at a large object wrapped in canvas, roped tightly under the raised cover of the car's luggage compartment.  "What happened to the factory records?"  "Which do you mean, ma'am?"  "Their production records. Their work records. Their . . . personnel files."  "Oh, there's nothing left of that now. There's been a lot of looting going on. All the mixed owners grabbed what furniture or things they could haul out of there, even if the sheriff did put a padlock on the door. The papers and stuff like that-I guess it was all taken by the scavengers from Starnesville, that's the place down in the valley, where they're having it pretty tough these days. They burned the stuff for kindling, most likely."  "Is there anyone left here who used to work in the factory?" asked Rearden.  "No, sir. Not around here. They all lived down in Starnesville."  "All of them?" whispered Dagny; she was thinking of the ruins. "The . . . engineers, too?"  "Yes, ma'am. That was the factory town. They've all gone, long ago."  "Do you happen to remember the names of any men who worked there?"  "No, ma'am."  "What owner was the last to operate the factory?" asked Rearden.  "I couldn't say, sir. There's been so much trouble up there and the place has changed hands so many times, since old Jed Starnes died.  He's the man who built the factory. He made this whole part of the country, I guess. He died twelve years ago."  "Can you give us the names of all the owners since?"  "No, sir. We had a fire in the old courthouse, about three years ago, and all the old records are gone. I don't know where you could trace them now."  "You don't know how this Mark Yonts happened to acquire the factory?"  "Yes, I know that. He bought it from Mayor Bascom of Rome. How Mayor Bascom happened to own it, I don't know."  "Where is Mayor Bascom now?"  "Still there, in Rome."  "Thank you very much," said Rearden, rising. "We'll call on him."  They were at the door when the clerk asked, "What is it you're looking for, sir?"  "We're looking for a friend of ours," said Rearden. "A friend we've lost, who used to work in that factory."  Mayor Bascom of Rome, Wisconsin, leaned back in his chair; his chest and stomach formed a pear-shaped outline under his soiled shirt.  The air was a mixture of sun and dust, pressing heavily upon the porch of his house. He waved his arm, the ring on his finger flashing a large topaz of poor quality.  "No use, no use, lady, absolutely no use," he said. "Would be just a waste of your time, trying to question the folks around here. There's no factory people left, and nobody that would remember much about them. So many families have moved away that what's left here is plain no good, if I do say so myself, plain no good, just being Mayor of a bunch of trash."  He had offered chairs to his two visitors, but he did not mind it if the lady preferred to stand at the porch railing. He leaned back, studying her long-lined figure; high-class merchandise, he thought; but then, the man with her was obviously rich.  Dagny stood looking at the streets of Rome. There were houses, sidewalks, lampposts, even a sign advertising soft drinks; but they looked as if it were now only a matter of inches and hours before the town would reach the stage of Starnesville.  "Naw, there's no factory records left," said Mayor Bascom. "If that's what you want to find, lady, give it up. It's like chasing leaves in a storm now. Just like leaves in a storm. Who cares about papers? At a time like this, what people save is good, solid, material objects. One's got to be practical."  Through the dusty windowpanes, they could see the living room of his house: there were Persian rugs on a buckled wooden floor, a portable bar with chromium strips against a wall stained by the seepage of last year's rains, an expensive radio with an old kerosene lamp placed on top of it.  "Sure, it's me that sold the factory to Mark Yonts. Mark was a nice fellow, a nice, lively, energetic fellow. Sure, he did trim a few corners, but who doesn't? Of course, he went a bit too far. That, I didn't expect. I thought he was smart enough to stay within the law-whatever's left of it nowadays."  Mayor Bascom smiled, looking at them in a manner of placid frankness. His eyes were shrewd without intelligence, his smile good-natured without kindness.  "I don't think you folks are detectives," he said, "but even if you were, it wouldn't matter to me. I didn't get any rake-off from Mark, he didn't let me in on any of his deals, I haven't any idea where he's gone to now." He sighed. "I liked that fellow. Wish he'd stayed around. Never mind the Sunday sermons. He had to live, didn't he? He was no worse than anybody, only smarter. Some get caught at it and some don't- that's the only difference. . . . Nope, I didn't know what he was going to do with it, when he bought that factory. Sure, he paid me quite a bit more than the old booby trap was worth. Sure, he was doing me a favor when he bought it. Nope, I didn't put any pressure on him to make him buy it. Wasn't necessary. I'd done him a few favors before. There's plenty of laws that's sort of made of rubber, and a mayor's in a position to stretch them a bit for a friend. Well, what the hell? That's the only way anybody ever gets rich in this world"-he glanced at the luxurious black car-"as you ought to know."  "You were telling us about the factory," said Rearden, trying to control himself.  "What I can't stand," said Mayor Bascom, "is people who talk about principles. No principle ever filled anybody's milk bottle. The only thing that counts in life is solid, material assets. It's no time for theories, when everything is falling to pieces around us. Well, me-I don't aim to go under. Let them keep their ideas and I'll take the factory. I don't want ideas, I just want my three square meals a day."  "Why did you buy that factory?"  "Why does anybody buy any business? To squeeze whatever can be squeezed out of it. I know a good chance when I see it. It was a bankruptcy sale and nobody much who'd want to bid on the old mess. So I got the place for peanuts. Didn't have to hold it long, either-Mark took it off my hands in two-three months. Sure, it was a smart deal, if I say so myself. No big business tycoon could have done any better with it."  "Was the factory operating when you took it over?"  "Naw. It was shut down."  "Did you attempt to reopen it?"  "Not me. I'm a practical person."  "Can you recall the names of any men who worked there?"  "No. Never met 'em."  "Did you move anything out of the factory?"  "Well, I'll tell you. I took a look around-and what I liked was old Jed's desk. Old led Starnes. He was a real big shot in his time. Wonderful desk, solid mahogany. So I carted it home. And some executive, don't know who he was, had a stall shower in his bathroom, the like of which I never saw. A glass door with a mermaid cut in the glass, real art work, and hot stuff, too, hotter than any oil painting. So I had that shower lifted and moved here. What the hell, I owned it, didn't I? I was entitled to get something valuable out of that factory."  "Whose bankruptcy sale was it, when you bought the factory?"  "Oh, that was the big crash of the Community National Bank in Madison. Boy, was that a crash! It just about finished the whole state of Wisconsin-sure finished this part of it. Some say it was this motor factory that broke the bank, but others say it was only the last drop in a leaking bucket, because the Community National had bum investments all over three or four states. Eugene Lawson was the head of it. The banker with a heart, they called him. He was quite famous in these parts two-three years ago."  "Did Lawson operate the factory?"  "No. He merely lent an awful lot of money on it, more than he could ever hope to get back out of the old dump. When the factory busted, that was the last straw for Gene Lawson. The bank busted three months later." He sighed. "It hit the folks pretty hard around here. They all had their life savings in the Community National."  Mayor Bascom looked regretfully past his porch railing at his town.  He jerked his thumb at a figure across the street: it was a white-haired charwoman, moving painfully on her knees, scrubbing the steps of a house.  "See that woman, for instance? They used to be solid, respectable folks. Her husband owned the dry-goods store. He worked all his life to provide for her in her old age, and he did, too, by the time he died- only the money was in the Community National Bank."  "Who operated the factory when it failed?"  "Oh, that was some quicky corporation called Amalgamated Service, Inc. Just a puff-ball. Came up out of nothing and went back to it."  "Where are its members?"  "Where are the pieces of a puff-ball when it bursts? Try and trace them all over the United States. Try it."  "Where is Eugene Lawson?"  "Oh, him? He's done all right. He's got a job in Washington-in the Bureau of Economic Planning and National Resources."  Rearden rose too fast, thrown to his feet by a jolt of anger, then said, controlling himself, "Thank you for the information."  "You're welcome, friend, you're welcome," said Mayor Bascom placidly. "I don't know what it is you're after, but take my word for it, give it up. There's nothing more to be had out of that factory."  "I told you that we are looking for a friend of ours."  "Well, have it your way. Must be a pretty good friend, if you'll go to so much trouble to find him, you and the charming lady who is not your wife."  Dagny saw Rearden's face go white, so that even his lips became a sculptured feature, indistinguishable against his skin. "Keep your dirty -" he began, but she stepped between them.  "Why do you think that I am not his wife?" she asked calmly.  Mayor Bascom looked astonished by Rearden's reaction; he had made the remark without malice, merely like a fellow cheat displaying his shrewdness to his partners in guilt.  "Lady, I've seen a lot in my lifetime," he said good-naturedly. "Married people don't look as if they have a bedroom on their minds when they look at each other. In this world, either you're virtuous or you enjoy yourself. Not both, lady, not both."  "I've asked him a question," she said to Rearden in time to silence him. "He's given me an instructive explanation."  "If you want a tip, lady," said Mayor Bascom, "get yourself a wedding ring from the dime store and wear it. It's not sure fire, but it helps."  "Thank you," she said, "Good-bye."  The stern, stressed calm of her manner was a command that made Rearden follow her back to their car in silence.  They were miles beyond the town when he said, not looking at her, his voice desperate and low, "Dagny, Dagny, Dagny . . . I'm sorry!"  "I'm not."  Moments later, when she saw the look of control returning to his face, she said, "Don't ever get angry at a man for stating the truth."  "That particular truth was none of his business."  "His particular estimate of it was none of your concern or mine."  He said through his teeth, not as an answer, but as if the single thought battering his brain turned into sounds against his will, 'T couldn't protect you from that unspeakable little-"  "I didn't need protection."  He remained silent, not looking at her.  "Hank, when you're able to keep down the anger, tomorrow or next week, give some thought to that man's explanation and see if you recognize any part of it."  He jerked his head to glance at her, but said nothing.  When he spoke, a long time later, it was only to say in a tired, even voice, "We can't call New York and have our engineers come here to search the factory. We can't meet them here. We can't let it be known that we found the motor together. . . . I had forgotten all that . . . up there . . . in the laboratory."  "Let me call Eddie, when we find a telephone. I'll have him send two engineers from the Taggart staff. I'm here alone, on my vacation, for all they'll know or have to know."  They drove two hundred miles before they found a long-distance telephone line. When she called Eddie Willers, he gasped, hearing her voice.  "Dagny! For God's sake, where are you?"  "In Wisconsin. Why?"  "1 didn't know where to reach you. You'd better come back at once.  As fast as you can."  "What happened?"  "Nothing-yet. But there are things going on, which . . . You'd better stop them now, if you can. If anybody can."  "What things?"  "Haven't you been reading the newspapers?"  "No."  "I can't tell you over the phone. I can't give you all the details. Dagny, you'll think I'm insane, but I think they're planning to kill Colorado."  "I'll come back at once," she said.  Cut into the granite of Manhattan, under the Taggart Terminal, there were tunnels which had once been used as sidings, at a time when traffic ran in clicking currents through every artery of the Terminal every hour of the day. The need for space had shrunk through the years, with the shrinking of the traffic, and the side tunnels had been abandoned, like dry river beds; a few lights remained as blue patches on the granite over rails left to rust on the ground.  Dagny placed the remnant of the motor into a vault in one of the tunnels; the vault had once contained an emergency electric generator, which had been removed long ago. She did not trust the useless young men of the Taggart research staff; there were only two engineers of talent among them, who could appreciate her discovery. She had shared her secret with the two and sent them to search the factory in Wisconsin. Then she had hidden the motor where no one else would know of its existence.  When her workers carried the motor down to the vault and departed, she was about to follow them and lock the steel door, but she stopped, key in hand, as if the silence and solitude had suddenly thrown her at the problem she had been facing for days, as if this were the moment to make her decision.  Her office car was waiting for her at one of the Terminal platforms, attached to the end of a train due to leave for Washington in a few minutes. She had made an appointment to see Eugene Lawson, but she had told herself that she would cancel it and postpone her quest-if she could think of some action to take against the things she had found on her return to New York, the things Eddie begged her to fight.  She had tried to think, but she could see no way of fighting, no rules of battle, no weapons. Helplessness was a strange experience, new to her; she had never found it hard to face things and make decisions; but she was not dealing with things-this was a fog without shapes or definitions, in which something kept forming and shifting before it could be seen, like semi-clots in a not-quite-liquid-it was as if her eyes were reduced to side-vision and she were sensing blurs of disaster coiling toward her, but she could not move her glance, she had no glance to move and focus.  The union of Locomotive Engineers was demanding that the maximum speed of all trains on the John Galt Line be reduced to sixty miles an hour. The union of Railway Conductors and Brakemen was demanding that the length of all freight trains on the John Galt Line be reduced to sixty cars.  The states of Wyoming, New Mexico, Utah and Arizona were demanding that the number of trains run in Colorado not exceed the number of trains run in each of these neighboring states.  A group headed by Orren Boyle was demanding the passage of a Preservation of Livelihood Law, which would limit the production of Rearden Metal to an amount equal to the output of any other steel mill of equal plant capacity, A group headed by Mr. Mowen was demanding the passage of a Fair Share Law to give every customer who wanted it an equal supply of Rearden Metal.  A group headed by Bertram Scudder was demanding the passage of a Public Stability Law, forbidding Eastern business firms to move out of their states.  Wesley Mouch, Top Co-ordinator of the Bureau of Economic Planning and National Resources, was issuing a great many statements, the content and purpose of which could not be denned, except that the words "emergency powers" and "unbalanced economy" kept appearing in the text every few lines.  "Dagny, by what right?" Eddie Willers had asked her, his voice quiet, but the words sounding like a cry. "By what right are they all doing it? By what right?"  She had confronted James Taggart in his office and said, "Jim, this is your battle. I've fought mine. You're supposed to be an expert at dealing with the looters. Stop them."  Taggart had said, not looking at her, "You can't expect to run the national economy to suit your own convenience."  "I don't want to run the national economy! I want your national economy runners to leave me alone! I have a railroad to run-and I know what's going to happen to your national economy if my railroad collapses!"  "I see no necessity for panic."  "Jim, do I have to explain to you that the income from our Rio Norte Line is all we've got, to save us from collapsing? That we need every penny of it, every fare, every carload of freight-as fast as we can get it?" He had not answered. "When we have to use every bit of power in every one of our broken-down Diesels, when we don't have enough of them to give Colorado the service it needs-what's going to happen if we reduce the speed and the length of trains?"  "Well, there's something to be said for the unions' viewpoint, too. With so many railroads closing and so many railroad men out of work, they feel that those extra speeds you've established on the Rio Norte Line are unfair-they feel that there should be more trains, instead, so that the work would be divided around-they feel that it's not fair for us to get all the benefit of that new rail, they want a share of it, too."  "Who wants a share of it? In payment for what?" He had not answered. "Who'll bear the cost of two trains doing the work of one?" He had not answered. "Where are you going to get the cars and the engines?" He had not answered. "What are those men going to do after they've put Taggart Transcontinental out of existence?"  "I fully intend to protect the interests of Taggart Transcontinental."  "How?" He had not answered. "How-if you kill Colorado?"  "It seems to me that before we worry about giving some people a chance to expand, we ought to give some consideration to the people who need a chance of bare survival."  "If you kill Colorado, what is there going to be left for your damn looters to survive on?"  "You have always been opposed to every progressive social measure. I seem to remember that you predicted disaster when we passed the Anti-dog-eat-dog Rule-but the disaster has not come."  "Because I saved you, you rotten fools! I won't be able to save you this time!" He had shrugged, not looking at her. "And if I don't, who will?" He had not answered.  It did not seem real to her, here, under the ground. Thinking of it here, she knew she could have no part in Jim's battle. There was no action she could take against the men of undefined thought, of unnamed motives, of unstated purposes, of unspecified morality. There was nothing she could say to them-nothing would be heard or answered. What were the weapons, she thought, in a realm where reason was not a weapon any longer? It was a realm she could not enter. She had to leave it to Jim and count on his self-interest. Dimly, she felt the chill of a thought telling her that self-interest was not Jim's motive.  She looked at the object before her, a glass case containing the remnant of the motor. The man who made the motor-she thought suddenly, the thought coming like a cry of despair. She felt a moment's helpless longing to find him, to lean against him and let him tell her what to do. A mind like his would know the way to win this battle.  She looked around her. In the clean, rational world of the underground tunnels, nothing was of so urgent an importance as the task of finding the man who made the motor. She thought: Could she delay it in order to argue with Orren Boyle?-to reason with Mr. Mowen?-to plead with Bertram Scudder? She saw the motor, completed, built into an engine that pulled a train of two hundred cars down a track of Rearden Metal at two hundred miles an hour. When the vision was within her reach, within the possible, was she to give it up and spend her time bargaining about sixty miles and sixty cars? She could not descend to an existence where her brain would explode under the pressure of forcing itself not to outdistance incompetence. She could not function to the rule of: Pipe down-keep down-slow down-don't do your best, it is not wanted!  She turned resolutely and left the vault, to take the train for Washington.  It seemed to her, as she locked the steel door, that she heard a faint echo of steps. She glanced up and down the dark curve of the tunnel.  There was no one in sight; there was nothing but a string of blue lights glistening on walls of damp granite.  Rearden could not fight the gangs who demanded the laws. The choice was to fight them or to keep his mills open. He had lost his supply of iron ore. He had to fight one battle or the other. There was no time for both.  He had found, on his return, that a scheduled shipment of ore had not been delivered. No word or explanation had been heard from Larkin. When summoned to Rearden's office, Larkin appeared three days later than the appointment made, offering no apology. He said, not looking at Rearden, his mouth drawn tightly into an expression of rancorous dignity: "After all, you can't order people to come running to your office any time you please."  Rearden spoke slowly and carefully. "Why wasn't the ore delivered?"  "I won't take abuse, I simply won't take any abuse for something I couldn't help. I can run a mine just as well as you ran it, every bit as well, I did everything you did-I don't know why something keeps going wrong unexpectedly all the time. I can't be blamed for the unexpected."  "To whom did you ship your ore last month?"  "I intended to ship you your share of it, I fully intended it, but I couldn't help it if we lost ten days of production last month on account of the rainstorm in the whole of north Minnesota-I intended to ship you the ore, so you can't blame me, because my intention was completely honest."  "If one of my blast furnaces goes down, will I be able to keep it going by feeding your intention into it?"  "That's why nobody can deal with you or talk to you-because you're inhuman."  "I have just learned that for the last three months, you have not been shipping your ore by the lake boats, you have been shipping it by rail. Why?"  "Well, after all, I have a right to run my business as I see fit."  "Why are you willing to pay the extra cost?"  "What do you care? I'm not charging it to you."  "What will you do when you find that you can't afford the rail rates and that you have destroyed the lake shipping?"  "I am sure you wouldn't understand any consideration other than dollars and cents, but some people do consider their social and patriotic responsibilities."  "What responsibilities?"  "Well, I think that a railroad like Taggart Transcontinental is essential to the national welfare and it is one's public duty to support Jim's Minnesota branch line, which is running at a deficit."  Rearden leaned forward across the desk; he was beginning to see the links of a sequence he had never understood. "To whom did you ship your ore last month?" he asked evenly.  "Well, after all, that is my private business which-"  "To Orren Boyle, wasn't it?"  "You can't expect people to sacrifice the entire steel industry of the nation to your selfish interests and-"  "Get out of here," said Rearden. He said it calmly. The sequence was clear to him now.  "Don't misunderstand me, I didn't mean-"  "Get out."  Larkin got out.  Then there followed the days and nights of searching a continent by phone, by wire, by plane-of looking at abandoned mines and at mines ready to be abandoned-of tense, rushed conferences held at tables hi the unlighted corners of disreputable restaurants. Looking across the table, Rearden had to decide how much he could risk to invest upon the sole evidence of a man's face, manner and tone of voice, hating the state of having to hope for honesty as for a favor, but risking it, pouring money into unknown hands in exchange for unsupported promises, into unsigned, unrecorded loans to dummy owners of failing mines-  money handed and taken furtively, as an exchange between criminals, in anonymous cash; money poured into unenforceable contracts-both parties knowing that in case of fraud, the defrauded was to be punished, not the defrauder-but poured that a stream of ore might continue flowing into furnaces, that the furnaces might continue to pour a stream of white metal.  "Mr. Rearden," asked the purchasing manager of his mills, "if you keep that up, where will be your profit?"  "We'll make it up on tonnage," said Rearden wearily. "We have an unlimited market for Rearden Metal."  The purchasing manager was an elderly man with graying hair, a lean, dry face, and a heart which, people said, was given exclusively to the task of squeezing every last ounce of value out of a penny. He stood in front of Rearden's desk, saying nothing else, merely looking straight at Rearden, his cold eyes narrowed and grim. It was a look of the most profound sympathy that Rearden had ever seen.  There's no other course open, thought Rearden, as he had thought through days and nights. He knew no weapons but to pay for what he wanted, to give value for value, to ask nothing of nature without trading his effort in return, to ask nothing of men without trading the product of his effort. What were the weapons, he thought, if values were not a weapon any longer?  "An unlimited market, Mr. Rearden?" the purchasing manager asked dryly.  Rearden glanced up at him. "I guess I'm not smart enough to make the sort of deals needed nowadays," he said, in answer to the unspoken thoughts that hung across his desk.  The purchasing manager shook his head. "No, Mr. Rearden, it's one or the other. The same kind of brain can't do both. Either you're good at running the mills or you're good at running to Washington."  "Maybe I ought to learn their method."  "You couldn't learn it and it wouldn't do you any good. You wouldn't win in any of those deals. Don't you understand? You're the one who's got something to be looted."  When he was left alone, Rearden felt a jolt of blinding anger, as it had come to him before, painful, single and sudden like an electric shock-the anger bursting out of the knowledge that one cannot deal with pure evil, with the naked, full-conscious evil that neither has nor seeks justification. But when he felt the wish to fight and kill in the rightful cause of self-defense-he saw the fat, grinning face of Mayor Bascom and heard the drawling voice saying, ". . . you and the charming lady who is not your wife."  Then no rightful cause was left, and the pain of anger was turning into the shameful pain of submission. He had no right to condemn anyone-he thought-to denounce anything, to fight and die joyously, claiming the sanction of virtue. The broken promises, the unconfessed desires, the betrayal, the deceit, the lies, the fraud-he was guilty of them all. What form of corruption could he scorn? Degrees do not matter, he thought; one does not bargain about inches of evil.  He did not know-as he sat slumped at his desk, thinking of the honesty he could claim no longer, of the sense of justice he had lost-  that it was his rigid honesty and ruthless sense of justice that were now knocking his only weapon out of his hands. He would fight the looters, but the wrath and fire were gone. He would fight, but only as one guilty wretch against the others. He did not pronounce the words, but the pain was their equivalent, the ugly pain saying: Who am I to cast the first stone?  He let his body fall across the desk. . . . Dagny, he thought, Dagny, if this is the price I have to pay, I'll pay it. . . . He was still the trader who knew no code except that of full payment for his desires.  It was late when he came home and hurried soundlessly up the stairs to his bedroom. He hated himself for being reduced to sneaking, but he had done it on most of his evenings for months. The sight of his family had become unbearable to him; he could not tell why. Don't hate them for your own guilt, he had told himself, but knew dimly that this was not the root of his hatred.  He closed the door of his bedroom like a fugitive winning a moment's reprieve. He moved cautiously, undressing for bed: he wanted no sound to betray his presence to his family, he wanted no contact with them, not even in their own minds.  He had put on his pajamas and stopped to light a cigarette, when the door of his bedroom opened. The only person who could properly enter his room without knocking had never volunteered to enter it, so he stared blankly for a moment before he was able to believe that it was Lillian who came in.  She wore an Empire garment of pale chartreuse, its pleated skirt streaming gracefully from its high waistline; one could not tell at first glance whether it was an evening gown or a negligee; it was a negligee.  She paused in the doorway, the lines of her body flowing into an attractive silhouette against the light.  "I know I shouldn't introduce myself to a stranger," she said softly, "but I'll have to: my name is Mrs. Rearden." He could not tell whether it was sarcasm or a plea.  She entered and threw the door closed with a casual, imperious gesture, the gesture of an owner.  "What is it, Lillian?" he asked quietly.  "My dear, you mustn't confess so much so bluntly"-she moved in a leisurely manner across the room, past his bed, and sat down in an armchair-"and so unflatteringly. It's an admission that I need to show special cause for taking your time. Should I make an appointment through your secretary?"  He stood in the middle of the room, holding the cigarette at his lips, looking at her. volunteering no answer.  She laughed. "My reason is so unusual that I know it will never occur to you: loneliness, darling. Do you mind throwing a few crumbs of your expensive attention to a beggar? Do you mind if I stay here without any formal reason at all?"  "No," he said quietly, "not if you wish to."  "I have nothing weighty to discuss-no million-dollar orders, no transcontinental deals, no rails, no bridges. Not even the political situation. I just want to chatter like a woman about perfectly unimportant things."  "Go ahead."  "Henry, there's no better way to stop me, is there?" She had an air of helpless, appealing sincerity. "What can I say after that? Suppose I wanted to tell you about the new novel which Balph Eubank is writing-he is dedicating it to me-would that interest you?"  "If it's the truth that you want-not in the least."  She laughed. "And if it's not the truth that I want?"  "Then I wouldn't know what to say," he answered-and felt a rush of blood to his brain, tight as a slap, realizing suddenly the double infamy of a lie uttered in protestation of honesty; he had said it sincerely, but it implied a boast to which he had no right any longer. "Why would you want it, if it's not the truth?" he asked. "What for?"  "Now you see, that's the cruelty of conscientious people. You wouldn't understand it-would you?-if I answered that real devotion consists of being willing to lie, cheat and fake in order to make another person happy-to create for him the reality he wants, if he doesn't like the one that exists."  "No," he said slowly, "I wouldn't understand it."  "It's really very simple. If you tell a beautiful woman that she is beautiful, what have you given her? It's no more than a fact and it has cost you nothing. But if you tell an ugly woman that she is beautiful, you offer her the great homage of corrupting the concept of beauty. To love a woman for her virtues is meaningless. She's earned it, it's a payment, not a gift. But to love her for her vices is a real gift, unearned and undeserved. To love her for her vices is to defile all virtue for her sake-and that is a real tribute of love, because you sacrifice your conscience, your reason, your integrity and your invaluable self-esteem."  He looked at her blankly. It sounded like some sort of monstrous corruption that precluded the possibility of wondering whether anyone could mean it; he wondered only what was the point of uttering it.  "What's love, darling, if it's not self-sacrifice?" she went on lightly, in the tone of a drawing-room discussion. "What's self-sacrifice, unless one sacrifices that which is one's most precious and most important? But I don't expect you to understand it. Not a stainless-steel Puritan like you. That's the immense selfishness of the Puritan. You'd let the whole world perish rather than soil that immaculate self of yours with a single spot of which you'd have to be ashamed."  He said slowly, his voice oddly strained and solemn, "I have never claimed to be immaculate."  She laughed. "And what is it you're being right now? You're giving me an honest answer, aren't you?" She shrugged her naked shoulders. "Oh, darling, don't take me seriously! I'm just talking."  He ground his cigarette into an ashtray; he did not answer.  "Darling," she said, "I actually came here only because I kept thinking that I had a husband and I wanted to find out what he looked like."  She studied him as he stood across the room, the tall, straight, taut lines of his body emphasized by the single color of the dark blue pajamas.  "You're very attractive," she said. "You look so much better-these last few months. Younger. Should I say happier? You look less tense. Oh, I know you're rushed more than ever and you act like a commander in an air raid, but that's only the surface. You're less tense-inside."  He looked at her, astonished. It was true; he had not known it, had not admitted it to himself. He wondered at her power of observation.  She had seen little of him in these last few months. He had not entered her bedroom since his return from Colorado. He had thought that she would welcome their isolation from each other. Now he wondered what motive could have made her so sensitive to a change in him-unless it was a feeling much greater than he had ever suspected her of experiencing.  "I was not aware of it," he said.  "It's quite becoming, dear-and astonishing, since you've been having such a terribly difficult time."  He wondered whether this was intended as a question. She paused, as if waiting for an answer, but she did not press it and went on gaily: "I know you're having all sorts of trouble at the mills-and then the political situation is getting to be ominous, isn't it? If they pass those laws they're talking about, it will hit you pretty hard, won't it?"  "Yes. It will. But that is a subject which is of no interest to you, Lillian, is it?"  "Oh, but it is!" She raised her head and looked straight at him; her eyes had the blank, veiled look he had seen before, a look of deliberate mystery and of confidence in his inability to solve it. "It is of great interest to me . . . though not because of any possible financial losses," she added softly.  He wondered, for the first time, whether her spite, her sarcasm, the cowardly manner of delivering insults under the protection of a smile, were not the opposite of what he had always taken them to be-not a method of torture, but a twisted form of despair, not a desire to make him suffer, but a confession of her own pain, a defense for the pride of an unloved wife, a secret plea-so that the subtle, the hinted, the evasive in her manner, the thing begging to be understood, was not the open malice, but the hidden love. He thought of it, aghast. It made his guilt greater than he had ever contemplated.  "If we're talking politics, Henry, I had an amusing thought. The side you represent-what is that slogan you all use so much, the motto you're supposed to stand for? 'The sanctity of contract'-is that it?"  She saw his swift glance, the intentness of his eyes, the first response of something she had struck, and she laughed aloud.  "Go on," he said; his voice was low; it had the sound of a threat.  "Darling, what for?-since you understood me quite well."  "What was it you intended to say?" His voice was harshly precise and without any color of feeling.  "Do you really wish to bring me to the humiliation of complaining? It's so trite and such a common complaint-although I did think I had a husband who prides himself on being different from lesser men. Do you want me to remind you that you once swore to make my happiness the aim of your life? And that you can't really say in all honesty whether I'm happy or unhappy, because you haven't even inquired whether I exist?"  He felt them as a physical pain-all the things that came tearing at him impossibly together. Her words were a plea, he thought-and he felt the dark, hot flow of guilt. He felt pity-the cold ugliness of pity without affection. He felt a dim anger, like a voice he tried to choke, a voice crying in revulsion: Why should I deal with her rotten, twisted lying?-why should I accept torture for the sake of pity?-why is it I who should have to take the hopeless burden of trying to spare a feeling she won't admit, a feeling I can't know or understand or try to guess? -if she loves me, why doesn't the damn coward say so and let us both face it in the open? He heard another, louder voice, saying evenly: Don't switch the blame to her, that's the oldest trick of all cowards-you're guilty-no matter what she does, it's nothing compared to your guilt-she's right-it makes you sick, doesn't it, to know it's she who's right?-let it make you sick, you damn adulterer-it's she who's right!  "What would make you happy, Lillian?" he asked. His voice was toneless.  She smiled, leaning back in her chair, relaxing; she had been watching his face intently.  "Oh, dear!" she said, as in bored amusement. "That's the shyster question. The loophole. The escape clause."  She got up, letting her arms fall with a shrug, stretching her body in a limp, graceful gesture of helplessness.  "What would make me happy, Henry? That is what you ought to tell me. That is what you should have discovered for me. I don't know. You were to create it and offer it to me. That was your trust, your obligation, your responsibility. But you won't be the first man to default on that promise. It's the easiest of all debts to repudiate. Oh, you'd never welsh on a payment for a load of iron ore delivered to you. Only on a life."  She was moving casually across the room, the green-yellow folds of her skirt coiling in long waves about her, "I know that claims of this kind are impractical," she said. "I have no mortgage on you, no collateral, no guns, no chains. I have no hold on you at all, Henry-nothing but your honor."  He stood looking at her as if it took all of his effort to keep his eyes directed at her face, to keep seeing her, to endure the sight. "What do you want?" he asked.  "Darling, there are so many things you could guess by yourself, if you really wished to know what I want. For instance, if you have been avoiding me so blatantly for months, wouldn't I want to know the reason?"  "I have been very busy."  She shrugged. "A wife expects to be the first concern of her husband's existence. I didn't know that when you swore to forsake all others, it didn't include blast furnaces."  She came closer and, with an amused smile that seemed to mock them both, she slipped her arms around him.  It was the swift, instinctive, ferocious gesture of a young bridegroom at the unrequested contact of a whore-the gesture with which he tore her arms off his body and threw her aside.  He stood, paralyzed, shocked by the brutality of his own reaction.  She was staring at him, her face naked in bewilderment, with no mystery, no pretense or protection; whatever calculations she had made, this was a thing she had not expected.  "I'm sorry, Lillian . . ." he said, his voice low, a voice of sincerity and of suffering.  She did not answer.  "I'm sorry . . . It's just that I'm very tired," he added, his voice lifeless; he was broken by the triple lie, one part of which was a disloyalty he could not bear to face; it was not the disloyalty to Lillian.  She gave a brief chuckle. "Well, if that's the effect your work has on you, I may come to approve of it. Do forgive me, I was merely trying to do my duty. I thought that you were a sensualist who'd never rise above the instincts of an animal in the gutter. I'm not one of those bitches who belong in it." She was snapping the words dryly, absently, without thinking. Her mind was on a question mark, racing over every possible answer.  It was her last sentence that made him face her suddenly, face her simply, directly, not as one on the defensive any longer. "Lillian, what purpose do you live for?" he asked.  "What a crude question! No enlightened person would ever ask it."  "Well, what is it that enlightened people do with their lives?"  "Perhaps they do not attempt to do anything. That is their enlightenment."  "What do they do with their time?"  "They certainly don't spend it on manufacturing plumbing pipes."  "Tell me, why do you keep making those cracks? I know that you feel contempt for the plumbing pipes. You've made that clear long ago. Your contempt means nothing to me. Why keep repeating it?"  He wondered why this hit her; he did not know in what manner, but he knew that it did. He wondered why he felt with absolute certainty that that had been the right thing to say.  She asked, her voice dry, "What's the purpose of the sudden questionnaire?"  He answered simply, "I'd like to know whether there's anything that you really want. If there is, I'd like to give it to you, if I can."  "You'd like to buy it? That's all you know-paying for things. You get off easily, don't you? No, it's not as simple as that. What I want is non-material."  "What is it?"  "You."  "How do you mean that, Lillian? You don't mean it in the gutter sense."  "No, not in the gutter sense."  "How, then?"  She was at the door, she turned, she raised her head to look at him and smiled coldly.  "You wouldn't understand it," she said and walked out.  The torture remaining to him was the knowledge that she would never want to leave him and he would never have the right to leave- the thought that he owed her at least the feeble recognition of sympathy, of respect for a feeling he could neither understand nor return-the knowledge that he could summon nothing for her, except contempt, a strange, total, unreasoning contempt, impervious to pity, to reproach, to his own pleas for justice-and, hardest to bear, the proud revulsion against his own verdict, against his demand that he consider himself lower than this woman he despised.  Then it did not matter to him any longer, it all receded into some outer distance, leaving only the thought that he was willing to bear anything-leaving him in a state which was both tension and peace-because he lay in bed, his face pressed to the pillow, thinking of Dagny, of her slender, sensitive body stretched beside him, trembling under the touch of his fingers. He wished she were back in New York. If she were, he would have gone there, now, at once, in the middle of the night.  Eugene Lawson sat at his desk as if it were the control panel of a bomber plane commanding a continent below. But he forgot it, at times, and slouched down, his muscles going slack inside his suit, as if he were pouting at the world. His mouth was the one part of him which he could not pull tight at any time; it was uncomfortably prominent in his lean face, attracting the eyes of any listener: when he spoke, the movement ran through his lower lip, twisting its moist flesh into extraneous contortions of its own.  "I am not ashamed of it," said Eugene Lawson. "Miss Taggart, I want you to know that I am not ashamed of my past career as president of the Community National Bank of Madison."  "I haven't made any reference to shame," said Dagny coldly.  "No moral guilt can be attached to me, inasmuch as I lost everything I possessed in the crash of that bank. It seems to me that I would have the right to feel proud of such a sacrifice."  "I merely wanted to ask you some questions about the Twentieth Century Motor Company which-"  "I shall be glad to answer any questions. I have nothing to hide. My conscience is clear. If you thought that the subject was embarrassing to me, you were mistaken.”  "I wanted to inquire about the men who owned the factory at the time when you made a loan to-"  "They were perfectly good men. They were a perfectly sound risk-though, of course, I am speaking in human terms, not in the terms of cold cash, which you are accustomed to expect from bankers. I granted them the loan for the purchase of that factory, because they needed the money. If people needed money, that was enough for me. Need was my standard, Miss Taggart. Need, not greed. My father and grandfather built up the Community National Bank just to amass a fortune for themselves. I placed their fortune in the service of a higher ideal. I did not sit on piles of money and demand collateral from poor people who needed loans. The heart was my collateral. Of course, I do not expect anyone in this materialistic country to understand me. The rewards I got were not of a kind that people of your class, Miss Taggart, would appreciate. The people who used to sit in front of my desk at the bank, did not sit as you do, Miss Taggart. They were humble, uncertain, worn with care, afraid to speak. My rewards were the tears of gratitude in their eyes, the trembling voices, the blessings, the woman who kissed my hand when I granted her a loan she had begged for in vain everywhere else."  "Will you please tell me the names of the men who owned the motor factory?"  "That factory was essential to the region, absolutely essential. I was perfectly justified in granting that loan. It provided employment for thousands of workers who had no other means of livelihood."  "Did you know any of the people who worked in the factory?"  "Certainly. I knew them all. It was men that interested me, not machines. I was concerned with the human side of industry, not the cash register side."  She leaned eagerly across the desk. "Did you know any of the engineers who worked there?"  "The engineers? No, no. I was much more democratic than that. It's the real workers that interested me. The common men. They all knew me by sight. I used to come into the shops and they would wave and shout, 'Hello, Gene.' That's what they called me-Gene. But I'm sure this is of no interest to you. It's past history. Now if you really came to Washington in order to talk to me about your railroad"-he straightened up briskly, the bomber-plane pose returning-"I don't know whether I can promise you any special consideration, inasmuch as I must hold the national welfare above any private privileges or interests which-"  "1 didn't come to talk to you about my railroad," she said, looking at him in bewilderment. "I have no desire to talk to you about my railroad."  "No?" He sounded disappointed.  "No. I came for information about the motor factory. Could you possibly recall the names of any of the engineers who worked there?"  "I don't believe I ever inquired about their names. I wasn't concerned with the parasites of office and laboratory. I was concerned with the real workers-the men of calloused hands who keep a factory going. They were my friends."  "Can you give me a few of their names? Any names, of anyone who worked there?"  "My dear Miss Taggart, it was so long ago, there were thousands of them, how can I remember?"  "Can't you recall one, any one?"  "I certainly cannot. So many people have always filled my life that I can't be expected to recall individual drops in the ocean."  "Were you familiar with the production of that factory? With the kind of work they were doing-or planning?"  "Certainly. I took a personal interest in all my investments. I went to inspect that factory very often. They were doing exceedingly well. They were accomplishing wonders. The workers' housing conditions were the best in the country. I saw lace curtains at every window and flowers on the window sills. Every home had a plot of ground for a garden. They had built a new schoolhouse for the children."  "Did you know anything about the work of the factory's research laboratory?"  "Yes, yes, they had a wonderful research laboratory, very advanced, very dynamic, with forward vision and great plans."  "Do you . . . remember hearing anything about . . . any plans to produce a new type of motor?"  "Motor? What motor, Miss Taggart? I had no time for details. My objective was social progress, universal prosperity, human brotherhood and love. Love, Miss Taggart. That is the key to everything. If men learned to love one another, it would solve all their problems."  She turned away, not to see the damp movements of his mouth.  A chunk of stone with Egyptian hieroglyphs lay on a pedestal in a corner of the office-the statue of a Hindu goddess with six spider arms stood in a niche-and a huge graph of bewildering mathematical detail, like the sales chart of a mail-order house, hung on the wall.  "Therefore, if you're thinking of your railroad, Miss Taggart-as, of course, you are, in view of certain possible developments-I must point out to you that although the welfare of the country is my first consideration, to which I would not hesitate to sacrifice anyone's profits, still, I have never closed my ears to a plea for mercy and-"  She looked at him and understood what it was that he wanted from her, what sort of motive kept him going.  "I don't wish to discuss my railroad," she said, fighting to keep her voice monotonously flat, while she wanted to scream in revulsion. "Anything you have to say on the subject, you will please say it to my brother, Mr. James Taggart."  "I'd think that at a time like this you wouldn't want to pass up a rare opportunity to plead your case before-"  "Have you preserved any records pertaining to the motor factory?"  She sat straight, her hands clasped tight together.  "What records? I believe I told you that I lost everything I owned when the bank collapsed." His body had gone slack once more, his interest had vanished. "But I do not mind it. What I lost was mere material wealth. I am not the first man in history to suffer for an ideal. I was defeated by the selfish greed of those around me. I couldn't establish a system of brotherhood and love in just one small state, amidst a nation of profit-seekers and dollar-grubbers. It was not my fault. But I won't let them beat me. I am not to be stopped. I am fighting-on a wider scale-for the privilege of serving my fellow men. Records, Miss Taggart? The record I left, when I departed from Madison, is inscribed in the hearts of the poor, who had never had a chance before."  She did not want to utter a single unnecessary word; but she could not stop herself: she kept seeing the figure of the old charwoman scrubbing the steps. "Have you seen that section of the country since?" she asked.  "It's not my fault!" he yelled. "It's the fault of the rich who still had money, but wouldn't sacrifice it to save my bank and the people of Wisconsin! You can't blame me! I lost everything!"  "Mr. Lawson," she said with effort, "do you perhaps recall the name of the man who headed the corporation that owned the factory? The corporation to which you lent the money. It was called Amalgamated Service, wasn't it? Who was its president?"  "Oh, him? Yes, I remember him. His name was Lee Hunsacker. A very worthwhile young man, who's taken a terrible beating."  "Where is he now? Do you know his address?"  "Why-I believe he's somewhere in Oregon. Grangeville, Oregon.  My secretary can give you his address. But I don't see of what interest . . . Miss Taggart, if what you have in mind is to try to see Mr. Wesley Mouch, let me tell you that Mr. Mouch attaches a great deal of weight to my opinion in matters affecting such issues as railroads and other-"  "I have no desire to see Mr. Mouch," she said, rising.  "But then, I can't understand . . . What, really, was your purpose in coming here?"  "I am trying to find a certain man who used to work for the Twentieth Century Motor Company."  "Why do you wish to find him?"  "I want him to work for my railroad."  He spread his arms wide, looking incredulous and slightly indignant.  "At such a moment, when crucial issues hang in the balance, you choose to waste your time on looking for some one employee? Believe me, the fate of your railroad depends on Mr. Mouch much more than on any employee you ever find."  "Good day," she said.  She had turned to go, when he said, his voice jerky and high, "You haven't any right to despise me."  She stopped to look at him. "I have expressed no opinion."  "I am perfectly innocent, since I lost my money, since I lost all of my own money for a good cause. My motives were pure. I wanted nothing for myself. I've never sought anything for myself. Miss Taggart, I can proudly say that in all of my life I have never made a profit!"  Her voice was quiet, steady and solemn: "Mr. Lawson, I think I should let you know that of all the statements a man can make, that is the one I consider most despicable."  "I never had a chance!" said Lee Hunsacker.  He sat in the middle of the kitchen, at a table cluttered with papers.  He needed a shave; his shirt needed laundering. It was hard to judge his age: the swollen flesh of his face looked smooth and blank, untouched by experience; the graying hair and filmy eyes looked worn by exhaustion; he was forty-two.  "Nobody ever gave me a chance. I hope they're satisfied with what they've made of me. But don't think that I don't know it. I know I was cheated out of my birthright. Don't let them put on any airs about how kind they are. They're a stinking bunch of hypocrites."  "Who?" asked Dagny.  "Everybody," said Lee Hunsacker. "People are bastards at heart and it's no use pretending otherwise. Justice? Huh! Look at it!" His arm swept around him. "A man like me reduced to this!"  Beyond the window, the light of noon looked like grayish dusk among the bleak roofs and naked trees of a place that was not country and could never quite become a town. Dusk and dampness seemed soaked into the walls of the kitchen. A pile of breakfast dishes lay in the sink; a pot of stew simmered on the stove, emitting steam with the greasy odor of cheap meat; a dusty typewriter stood among the papers on the table.  "The Twentieth Century Motor Company," said Lee Hunsacker, "was one of the most illustrious names in the history of American industry. I was the president of that company. I owned that factory.  But they wouldn't give me a chance."  "You were not the president of the Twentieth Century Motor Company, were you? I believe you headed a corporation called Amalgamated Service?"  "Yes, yes, but it's the same thing. We took over their factory. We were going to do just as well as they did. Better. We were just as important. Who the hell was Jed Starnes anyway? Nothing but a backwoods garage mechanic-did you know that that's how he started?-without any background at all. My family once belonged to the New York Four Hundred. My grandfather was a member of the national legislature. It's not my fault that my father couldn't afford to give me a car of my own, when he sent me to school. All the other boys had cars. My family name was just as good as any of theirs. When I went to college-" He broke off abruptly. "What newspaper did you say you're from?"  She had given him her name; she did not know why she now felt glad that he had not recognized it and why she preferred not to enlighten him. "I did not say I was from a newspaper," she answered, "I need some information on that motor factory for a private purpose of my own, not for publication."  "Oh." He looked disappointed. He went on sullenly, as if she were guilty of a deliberate offense against him. "I thought maybe you came for an advance interview because I'm writing my autobiography." He pointed to the papers on the table. "And what I intend to tell is plenty. I intend-Oh, hel............