Atlas Shrugged [750]
In the instant when the second guard grasped it, he saw that Francisco's gun was aimed at him.
"Don't shoot, mister!" he cried.
"Come down here with your hands up," ordered Francisco, holding his gun aimed with one hand and waving a signal to the crack of the door with the other.
By the time the guard descended the stairs, Rearden was there to disarm him, and Danneskjold to tie his hands and feet. The sight of Dagny seemed to frighten him more than the rest; he could not understand it: the three men wore caps and windbreakers, and, but for their manner, could be taken for a gang of highwaymen; the presence of a lady was inexplicable.
"Now," said Francisco, "where is your chief?"
The guard jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. "Up there."
"How many guards are there in the building?"
"Nine."
"Where are they?"
"One's on the cellar stairs. The others are all up there."
"Where?"
"In the big laboratory. The one with the window."
"All of them?"
"Yes."
"What are these rooms?" He pointed at the doors leading off the hall.
"They're labs, too. They're locked for the night."
"Who's got the key?"
"Him." He jerked his head at Pete.
Rearden and Danneskjold took the key from Pete's pocket and hurried soundlessly to check the rooms, while Francisco continued, "Are there any other men in the building?"
"No."
"Isn't there a prisoner here?"
"Oh . . . yeah, I guess so. There must be, or they wouldn't've kept us all on duty."
"Is he still here?"
"That, I don't know. They'd never tell us,"
"Is Dr. Ferris here?"
"No. He left ten-fifteen minutes ago."
"Now, that laboratory upstairs-does it open right on the stair landing?"
"Yes."
"How many doors are there?"
"Three. It's the one in the middle."
"What are the other rooms?"
"There's the small laboratory on one side and Dr. Ferris' office on the other."
"Are there connecting doors between them?"
"Yes."
Francisco was turning to his companions, when the guard said pleadingly, "Mister, can I ask you a question?"
"Go ahead."
"Who are you?"
He answered in the solemn tone of a drawing-room introduction, "Francisco Domingo Carlos Andres Sebastian d'Anconia."
He left the guard gaping at him and turned to a brief, whispered consultation with his companions.
In a moment, it was Rearden who went up the stairs-swiftly, soundlessly and alone.
Cages containing rats and guinea pigs were stacked against the walls of the laboratory; they had been put there by the guards who were playing poker on the long laboratory table in the center. Six of them were playing; two were standing in opposite corners, watching the entrance door, guns in hand. It was Rearden's face that saved him from being shot on sight when he entered: his face was too well known to them and too unexpected. He saw eight heads staring at him with recognition and with inability to believe what they were recognizing.
He stood at the door, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, with the casual, confident manner of a business executive.
"Who is in charge here?" he asked in the politely abrupt voice of a man who does not waste time.
"You . . . you're not . . ." stammered a lanky, surly individual at the card table.
"I'm Hank Rearden. Are you the chief?"
"Yeah! But where in blazes do you come from?"
"From New York."
"What are you doing here?"
"Then, I take it, you have not been notified."
"Should I have . . . I mean, about what?" The swift, touchy, resentful suspicion that his superiors had slighted his authority, was obvious in the chief's voice. He was a tall, emaciated man, with jerky movements, a sallow face and the restless, unfocused eyes of a drug addict.
"About my business here."
"You . . . you can't have any business here," he snapped, torn between the fear of a bluff and the fear of having been left out of some important, top-level decision. "Aren't you