Atlas Shrugged [521]
She inclined her head. "You are right."
"Your plane has been repaired. Do you wish to reclaim it by signing a draft on your account at the Mulligan Bank?"
"No."
"Then we shall hold it, until such time as you choose to pay for it.
Day after tomorrow, I will take you in my plane to a point outside the valley and leave you within reach of further transportation."
She inclined her head. "Very well."
It had grown dark, when they left Midas Mulligan's. The trail back to Galt's house led across the valley, past Francisco's cabin, and the three of them walked home together. A few squares of lighted windows hung scattered through the darkness, and the first streams of mist were weaving slowly across the panes, like shadows cast by a distant sea.
They walked in silence, but the sound of their steps, blending into a single, steady beat, was like a speech to be grasped and not to be uttered in any other form.
After a while, Francisco said, "It changes nothing, it only makes the span a little longer, and the last stretch is always the hardest-but it's the last."
"I will hope so," she said. In a moment, she repeated quietly, "The last is the hardest." She turned to Galt. "May I make one request?"
"Yes."
"Will you let me go tomorrow?"
"If you wish."
When Francisco spoke again, moments later, it was as if he were addressing the unnamed wonder in her mind; his voice had the tone of answering, a question: "Dagny, all three of us are in love"-she jerked her head to him-"with the same thing, no matter what its forms. Don't wonder why you feel no breach among us. You'll be one of us, so long as you'll remain in love with your rails and your engines-and they'll lead you back to us, no matter how many times you lose your way. The only man never to be redeemed is the man without passion."
"Thank you," she said softly.
"For what?"
"For . . . for the way you sound."
"How do I sound? Name it, Dagny."
"You sound . . . as if you're happy."
"I am-in exactly the same way you are. Don't tell me what you feel. I know it. But, you see, the measure of the hell you're able to endure is the measure of your love. The hell I couldn't bear to witness would be to see you being indifferent."
She nodded silently, unable to name as joy any part of the things she felt, yet feeling that he was right.
Clots of mist were drifting, like smoke, across the moon, and in the diffused glow she could not distinguish the expressions of their faces, as she walked between them: the only expressions to perceive were the straight silhouettes of their bodies, the unbroken sound of then- steps and her own feeling that she wished to walk on and on, a feeling she could not define, except that it was neither doubt nor pain, When they approached his cabin, Francisco stopped, the gesture of his hand embracing them both as he pointed to his door. "Will you come in -since it's to be our last night together for some time? Let's have a drink to that future of which all three of us are certain."
"Are we?" she asked.
"Yes," said Galt, "we are."
She looked at their faces when Francisco switched on the light in his house. She could not define their expressions, it was not happiness or any emotion pertaining to joy, their faces were taut and solemn, but it was a glowing solemnity-she thought-if this were possible, and the odd glow she felt within her, told her that her own face had the same look.
Francisco reached for three glasses from a cupboard, but stopped, as at a sudden thought. He placed one glass on the table, then reached for the two silver goblets of Sebastian d'Anconia and placed them beside it.
"Are you going straight to New York, Dagny?" he asked,