Atlas Shrugged [724]
It had been easy to assume a look of cold shrewdness and to remind Mr. Thompson of the five-hundred-thousand-dollar reward, her voice clear and cutting, like the sound of an adding machine punching out the sum of a bill. She had seen an instant's pause in Mr. Thompson's facial muscles, then a brighter, broader smile-like a silent speech declaring that he had not expected it, but was delighted to know what made her tick and that it was the kind of ticking he understood.
"Of course, Miss Taggart! Certainly! That reward is yours-all yours!
The check will be sent to you, in full!"
It had been easy, because she had felt as if she were in some dreary non-world, where her words and actions were not facts any longer-not reflections of reality, but only distorted postures in one of those side-show mirrors that project deformity for the perception of beings whose consciousness is not to be treated as consciousness. Thin, single and hot, like the burning pressure of a wire within her, like a needle selecting her course, was her only concern: the thought of his safety. The rest was a blur of shapeless dissolution, half-acid, half fog.
But this-she thought with a shudder-was the state in which they lived, all those people whom she had never understood, this was the state they desired, this rubber reality, this task of pretending, distorting, deceiving, with the credulous stare of some Mr. Thompson's panic-bleary eyes as one's only purpose and reward. Those who desired this state-she wondered-did they want to live?
"The biggest stakes in the world, Miss Taggart?" Mr. Thompson was asking her anxiously. "What is it? What does he want?"
"Reality. This earth."
"I don't know quite what you mean, but . . . Look, Miss Taggart, if you think you can understand him, would you . . . would you try to speak to him once more?"
She felt as if she heard her own voice, many light-years away, crying that she would give her life to see him-but in this room, she heard the voice of a meaningless stranger saying coldly, "No, Mr.
Thompson, I wouldn't. I hope I'll never have to see him again."
"I know that you can't stand him, and I can't say I blame you, but couldn't you just try to-"
"I tried to reason with him, the night I found him. I heard nothing but insults in return. I think he resents me more than he'd resent anyone else. He won't forgive me the fact that it was I who trapped him.
I'd be the last person to whom he would surrender."
"Yeah . . . yeah, that's true. . . . Do you think he will ever surrender?"
The needle within her wavered for a moment, burning its oscillating way between two courses: should she say that he would not, and see them kill him?-should she say that he would, and see them hold onto their power till they destroyed the world?
"He will," she said firmly. "He'll give in, if you treat him right.
He's too ambitious to refuse power. Don't let him escape, but don't threaten him-or harm him. Fear won't work. He's impervious to fear."
"But what if . . . I mean, with the way things are collapsing . . .
what if he holds out too long?"
"He won't. He's too practical for that. By the way, are you letting him hear any news about the state of the country?"
"Why . . . no."
"I would suggest that you let him have copies of your confidential reports. He'll see that it won't be long now."
"That's a good idea! A very good idea! . . . You know, Miss Taggart," he said suddenly, with the sound of some desperate clinging hi his voice, "I feel better whenever I talk to you. It's because I trust you. I don't trust anybody around me. But you-you're different.
You're solid."
She was looking unflinchingly straight at him. "Thank you, Mr.
Thompson," she said.
It had been easy, she thought-until she walked out into the street and noticed that under her coat, her blouse was sticking damply to her shoulder blades.
Were she able to feel-she thought as she walked through the concourse of the Terminal-she would know that the heavy indifference she now felt for her railroad