Atlas Shrugged [180]
"It's closed."
"I know it's closed. But is there any way to get there?"
"I don't know."
"Is there any sort of road?"
"There's roads in the woods."
"Any for a car to drive through?"
"Maybe."
"Well, which would be the best road to take?"
"I don't know."
Through the open door, they could see the interior of her house.
There was a useless gas stove, its oven stuffed with rags, serving as a chest of drawers. There was a stove built of stones in a corner, with a few logs burning under an old kettle, and long streaks of soot rising up the wall. A white object lay propped against the legs of a table: it was a porcelain washbowl, torn from the wall of some bathroom, filled with wilted cabbages. A tallow candle stood in a bottle on the table. There was no paint left on the floor; its boards were scrubbed to a soggy gray that looked like the visual expression of the pain in the bones of the person who had bent and scrubbed and lost the battle against the grime now soaked into the grain of the boards.
A brood of ragged children had gathered at the door behind the woman, silently, one by one. They stared at the car, not with the bright curiosity of children, but with the tension of savages ready to vanish at the first sign of danger.
"How many miles is it to the factory?" asked Rearden.
"Ten miles," said the woman, and added, "Maybe five."
"How far is the next town?"
"There ain't any next town."
"There are other towns somewhere. I mean, how far?"
"Yeah. Somewhere."
In the vacant space by the side of the house, they saw faded rags hanging on a clothesline, which was a piece of telegraph wire. Three chickens pecked among the beds of a scraggly vegetable garden; a fourth sat roosting on a bar which was a length of plumber's pipe. Two pigs waddled in a stretch of mud and refuse; the stepping stones laid across the muck were pieces of the highway's concrete.
They heard a screeching sound in the distance and saw a man drawing water from a public well by means of a rope pulley. They watched him as he came slowly down the street. He carried two buckets that seemed too heavy for his thin arms. One could not tell his age.
He approached and stopped, looking at the car. His eyes darted at the strangers, then away, suspicious and furtive.
Rearden took out a ten-dollar bill and extended it to him, asking, "Would you please tell us the way to the factory?"
The man stared at the money with sullen indifference, not moving, not lifting a hand for it, still clutching the two buckets. If one were ever to see a man devoid of greed, thought Dagny, there he was.
"We don't need no money around here," he said.
"Don't you work for a living?"
"Yeah."
"Well, what do you use for money?"
The man put the buckets down, as if it had just occurred to him that he did not have to stand straining under their weight. "We don't use no money," he said. "We just trade things amongst us."
"How do you trade with people from other towns?"
"We don't go to no other towns."
"You don't seem to have it easy here."
"What's that to you?"
"Nothing. Just curiosity. Why do you people stay here?"
"My old man used to have a grocery store here. Only the factory closed."
"Why didn't you move?"
"Where to?"
"Anywhere."
"What for?"
Dagny was staring at the two buckets: they were square tins with rope handles; they had been oil cans.
"Listen," said Rearden, "can you tell us whether there's a road to the factory?"
"There's plenty of roads."
"Is there one that a car can take?"
"I guess so."
"Which one?"
The man weighed the problem earnestly for some moments. "Well, now, if you turn to the left by the schoolhouse," he said, "and go on til you come to the crooked oak, there's a road up there that's fine when it don't rain for a couple of weeks."
"When did it rain last?"
"Yesterday."
"Is there another road?"
"Well, you could go through Hanson's pasture and across the woods and then there's a good, solid road there, all the way down to the creek."
"Is there a bridge across the creek?"
"No."
"What are the other roads?"
"Well, if it's a car road that