Atlas Shrugged [163]
"Are you James Taggart?" she asked.
"Yes!" he snapped. "Why?"
"Oh!"
She gasped like a child at a burst of firecrackers; she was looking at him with a glance which he had thought to be reserved only for movie stars.
"I saw your picture in the paper this morning, Mr. Taggart," she said very rapidly, a faint flush appearing on her face and vanishing. "It said what a great achievement it was and how it was really you who had done it all, only you didn't want it to be known."
"Oh," said Taggart. He was smiling.
"You look just like your picture," she said in immense astonishment, and added, "Imagine you walking in here like this, in person!"
"Shouldn't I?" His tone was amused.
"I mean, everybody's talking about it, the whole country, and you're the man who did it-and here you are! I've never seen an important person before. I've never been so close to anything important, I mean to any newspaper news."
He had never had the experience of seeing his presence give color to a place he entered: the girl looked as if she was not tired any longer, as if the dime store had become a scene of drama and wonder.
"Mr. Taggart, is it true, what they said about you in the paper?"
"What did they say?"
"About your secret."
"What secret?"
"Well, they said that when everybody was fighting about your bridge, whether it would stand or not, you didn't argue with them, you just went ahead, because you knew it would stand, when nobody else was sure of it-so the Line was a Taggart project and you were the guiding spirit behind the scenes, but you kept it secret, because you didn't care whether you got credit for it or not."
He had seen the mimeographed release of his Public Relations Department. "Yes," he said, "it's true." The way she looked at him made him feel as if it were.
"It was wonderful of you, Mr. Taggart."
"Do you always remember what you read in the newspapers, so well, in such detail?"
"Why, yes, I guess so-all the interesting things. The big things. I like to read about them. Nothing big ever happens to me."
She said it gaily, without self-pity. There was a young, determined brusqueness in her voice and movements. She had a head of reddish brown curls, wide-set eyes, a few freckles on the bridge of an upturned nose. He thought that one would call her face attractive if one ever noticed it, but there was no particular reason to notice it. It was a common little face, except for a look of alertness, of eager interest, a look that expected the world to contain an exciting secret behind every corner.
"Mr. Taggart, how does it feel to be a great man?"
"How does it feel to be a little girl?"
She laughed. "Why, wonderful."
"Then you're better off than I am."
"Oh, how can you say such a-"
"Maybe you're lucky if you don't have anything to do with the big events in the newspapers. Big. What do you call big, anyway?"
"Why . . . important."
"What's important?"
"You're the one who ought to tell me that, Mr. Taggart."
"Nothing's important."
She looked at him incredulously. "You, of all people, saying that tonight of all nights!"
"1 don't feel wonderful at all, if that's what you want to know. I've never felt less wonderful in my life."
He was astonished to see her studying his face with a look of concern such as no one had ever granted him. "You're worn out, Mr. Taggart,"
she said earnestly. "Tell them to go to hell."
"Whom?"
"Whoever's getting you down. It isn't right,"
"What isn't?"
"That you should feel this way. You've had a tough time, but you've licked them all, so you ought to enjoy yourself now. You've earned it."
"And how do you propose that I enjoy myself?"
"Oh, I don't know. But I thought you'd be having a celebration tonight, a party with all the big shots, and champagne, and things given to you, like keys to cities,