Atlas Shrugged [299]
He spoke in a careless, offhand manner, as if explaining the obvious to a group of adolescents; his tone conveyed the assurance of a man who knows that the moral ground of his stand is not open to question.
Rearden sat looking at him, as if studying an object seen for the first time. Somewhere deep in Rearden's mind, as a steady, gentle, inexorable beat, was a man's voice, saying: By what right?-by what code?-
by what standard?
"Philip," he said, not raising his voice, "say any of that again and you will find yourself out in the street, right now, with the suit you've got on your back, with whatever change you've got in your pocket and with nothing else."
. He heard no answer, no sound, no movement. He noted that the stillness of the three before him had no element of astonishment. The look of shock on their faces was not the shock of people at the sudden explosion of a bomb, but the shock of people who had known that they Were playing with a lighted fuse. There were no outcries, no protests, no questions; they knew that he meant it and they knew everything it meant. A dim, sickening feeling told him that they had known it long before he did.
"You . . . you wouldn't throw your own brother out on the street, would you?" his mother said at last; it was not a demand, but a plea.
"I would."
"But he's your brother . . . Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"No."
"Maybe he goes a bit too far at times, but it's just loose talk, it's just that modern jabber, he doesn't know what he's saying."
"Then let him learn."
"Don't be hard on him . . . he's younger than you and . . . and weaker. He . . . Henry, don't look at me that way! I've never seen you look like that. . . . You shouldn't frighten him. You know that he needs you."
"Does he know it?"
"You can't be hard on a man who needs you, it will prey on your conscience for the rest of your life."
"It won't."
"You've got to be kind, Henry."
"I'm not."
"You've got to have some pity."
"I haven't."
"A good man knows how to forgive."
"I don't."
"You wouldn't want me to think that you're selfish,"
"I am."
Philip's eyes were darting from one to the other. He looked like a man who had felt certain that he stood on solid granite and had suddenly discovered that it was thin ice, now cracking open all around him.
"But I . . . " he tried, and stopped; his voice sounded like steps testing the ice. "But don't I have any freedom of speech?"
"In your own house. Not in mine."
"Don't I have a right to my own ideas?"
"At your own expense. Not at mine."
"Don't you tolerate any differences of opinion?"
"Not when I'm paying the bills."
"Isn't there anything involved but money?"
"Yes. The fact that it's my money."
"Don't you want to consider any hi . . ."-he was going to say "higher," but changed his mind-"any other aspects?"
"No."
"But I'm not your slave."
"Am I yours?"
"I don't know what you-" He stopped; he knew what was meant.
"No," said Rearden, "you're not my slave. You're free to walk out of here any time you choose."
"I . . . I'm not speaking of that."
"I am."
"I don't understand it . . ."
my political views. You've never "Don't you?"
"You've always known my .
objected before."
"That's true," said Rearden gravely. "Perhaps I owe you an explanation, if I have misled you. I've tried never to remind you that you're riving on my charity. I thought that it was your place to