Atlas Shrugged [210]
"How did you happen to know about his motor?"
"I found a broken remnant of it in the ruins of the Twentieth Century factory. Not enough to reconstruct it or to learn how it worked, But enough to know that it did work and that it's an invention which can save my railroad, the country and the economy of the whole world.
Don't ask me to tell you now what trail I've followed, trying to trace that motor and to find its inventor. That's not of any importance, even my life and work are not of any importance to me right now, nothing is of any importance, except that I must find him. Don't ask me how I happened to come to you. You're the end of the trail. Tell me his name."
He had listened without moving, looking straight at her; the attentiveness of his eyes seemed to take hold of every word and store it carefully away, giving her no clue to his purpose. He did not move for a long time. Then he said, "Give it up, Miss Taggart. You won't find him."
"What is his name?"
"I can tell you nothing about him."
"Is he still alive?"
"I can tell you nothing."
"What is your name?"
"Hugh Akston."
Through the blank seconds of recapturing her mind, she kept telling herself: You're hysterical . . . don't be preposterous . . . it's just a coincidence of names-while she knew, in certainty and numb, inexplicable terror, that this was the Hugh Akston.
"Hugh Akston?" she stammered. "The philosopher? . . . The last of the advocates of reason?"
"Why, yes," he answered pleasantly. "Or the first of their return."
He did not seem startled by her shock, but he seemed to find it unnecessary. His manner was simple, almost friendly, as if he felt no need to hide his identity and no resentment at its being discovered.
"I didn't think that any young person would recognize my name or attach any significance to it, nowadays," he said.
"But . . . but what are you doing here?" Her arm swept at the room. "This doesn't make sense!"
"Are you sure?"
"What is it? A stunt? An experiment? A secret mission? Are you studying something for some special purpose?"
"No, Miss Taggart. I'm earning my living." The words and the voice had the genuine simplicity of truth, "Dr. Akston, I . . . it's inconceivable, it's . . . You're . . . you're a philosopher . . . the greatest philosopher living . . . an immortal name . . . why would you do this?"
"Because I am a philosopher, Miss Taggart."
She knew with certainty-even though she felt as if her capacity for certainty and for understanding were gone-that she would obtain no help from him, that questions were useless, that he would give her no explanation, neither of the inventor's fate nor of his own.
"Give it up, Miss Taggart," he said quietly, as if giving proof that he could guess her thoughts, as she had known he would. "It is a hopeless quest, the more hopeless because you have no inkling of what an impossible task you have chosen to undertake. I would like to spare you the strain of trying to devise some argument, trick or plea that would make me give you the information you are seeking. Take my word for it: it can't be done. You said I'm the end of your trail. It's a blind alley, Miss Taggart, Do not attempt to waste your money and effort on other, more conventional methods of inquiry: do not hire detectives. They will learn nothing. You may choose to ignore my warning, but I think that you are a person of high intelligence, able to know that I know what I am saying. Give it up. The secret you are trying to solve involves something greater-much greater-than the invention of a motor run by atmospheric electricity. There is only one helpful suggestion that I can give you: By the essence and nature of existence, contradictions cannot exist. If you find it inconceivable that an invention of genius should be abandoned among ruins, and that a philosopher should wish to work as a cook in a diner-check your premises. You will find that one of them is wrong."
She started: she remembered that she had heard this before and that it was Francisco who had said it. And then she remembered that this man had been one of Francisco's