Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand [117]
“But surely questions of social welfare—”
“Drop it.”
The man looked bewildered and lost, as if the ground had been cut from under his feet. In a moment, he asked helplessly, “But what, then, is your chief concern?”
“The market.”
“How do you mean?”
“There’s a market for Rearden Metal and I intend to take full advantage of it.”
“Isn’t the market somewhat hypothetical? The public response to your metal has not been encouraging. Except for the order from Taggart Transcontinental, you haven’t obtained any major—”
“Well, then, if you think the public won’t go for it, what are you worrying about?”
“If the public doesn’t go for it, you will take a heavy loss, Mr. Rearden.”
“That’s my worry, not yours.”
“Whereas, if you adopt a more co-operative attitude and agree to wait for a few years—”
“Why should I wait?”
“But I believe I have made it clear that the State Science Institute does not approve of the appearance of Rearden Metal on the metallurgical scene at the present time.”
“Why should I give a damn about that?”
The man sighed. “You are a very difficult man, Mr. Rearden.”
The sky of the late afternoon was growing heavy, as if thickening against the glass of the windowpanes. The outlines of the man’s figure seemed to dissolve into a blob among the sharp, straight planes of the furniture.
“I gave you this appointment,” said Rearden, “because you told me that you wished to discuss something of extreme importance. If this is all you had to say, you will please excuse me now. I am very busy.”
The man settled back in his chair. “I believe you have spent ten years of research on Rearden Metal,” he said. “How much has it cost you?”
Rearden glanced up: he could not understand the drift of the question, yet there was an undisguised purposefulness in the man’s voice; the voice had hardened.
“One and a half million dollars,” said Rearden.
“How much will you take for it?”
Rearden had to let a moment pass. He could not believe it. “For what?” he asked, his voice low.
“For all rights to Rearden Metal.”
“I think you had better get out of here,” said Rearden.
“There is no call for such an attitude. You are a businessman. I am offering you a business proposition. You may name your own price.”
“The rights to Rearden Metal are not for sale.”
“I am in a position to speak of large sums of money. Government money.”
Rearden sat without moving, the muscles of his cheeks pulled tight; but his glance was indifferent, focused only by the faint pull of morbid curiosity.
“You are a businessman, Mr. Rearden. This is a proposition which you cannot afford to ignore. On the one hand, you are gambling against great odds, you are bucking an unfavorable public opinion, you run a good chance of losing every penny you put into Rearden Metal. On the other hand, we can relieve you of the risk and the responsibility, at an impressive profit, an immediate profit, much larger than you could hope to realize from the sale of the metal for the next twenty years.”
“The State Science Institute is a scientific establishment, not a commercial one,” said Rearden. “What is it that they’re so afraid of?”
“You are using ugly, unnecessary words, Mr. Rearden. I am endeav oring to suggest that we keep the discussion on a friendly plane. The matter is serious.”
“I am beginning to see that.”
“We are offering you a blank check on what is, as you realize, an unlimited account. What else can you want? Name your price.”
“The sale of the rights to Rearden Metal is not open to discussion. If you have anything else to say, please say it and leave.”
The man leaned back, looked at Rearden incredulously and asked, “What are you after?”
“I? What do you mean?”
“You’re in business to make money, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“You want to make as big a profit as possible, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Then why do you want to struggle for years, squeezing out your gains in the form of pennies per ton—rather than accept a fortune for Rearden Metal? Why?”
“Because