Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand [145]
When he sold his coal mines to Ken Danagger, who owned the largest coal company in Pennsylvania, Rearden wondered why he felt as if it were almost painless. He felt no hatred. Ken Danagger was a man in his fifties, with a hard, closed face; he had started in life as a miner.
When Rearden handed to him the deed to his new property, Danagger said impassively, “I don’t believe I’ve mentioned that any coal you buy from me, you’ll get it at cost.”
Rearden glanced at him, astonished. “It’s against the law,” he said.
“Who’s going to find out what sort of cash I hand to you in your own living room?”
“You’re talking about a rebate.”
“I am.”
“That’s against two dozen laws. They’ll sock you worse than me, if they catch you at it.”
“Sure. That’s your protection—so you won’t be left at the mercy of my good will.”
Rearden smiled; it was a happy smile, but he closed his eyes as under a blow. Then he shook his head. “Thanks,” he said. “But I’m not one of them. I don’t expect anybody to work for me at cost.”
“I’m not one of them, either,” said Danagger angrily. “Look here, Rearden, don’t you suppose I know what I’m getting, unearned? The money doesn’t pay you for it. Not nowadays.”
“You didn’t volunteer to bid to buy my property. I asked you to buy it. I wish there had been somebody like you in the ore business, to take over my mines. There wasn’t. If you want to do me a favor, don’t offer me rebates. Give me a chance to pay you higher prices, higher than anyone else will offer, sock me anything you wish, just so I’ll be first to get the coal. I’ll manage my end of it. Only let me have the coal.”
“You’ll have it.”
Rearden wondered, for a while, why he heard no word from Wesley Mouch. His calls to Washington remained unanswered. Then he received a letter consisting of a single sentence which informed him that Mr. Mouch was resigning from his employ. Two weeks later, he read in the newspapers that Wesley Mouch had been appointed Assistant Co-ordinator of the Bureau of Economic Planning and National Resources.
Don’t dwell on any of it—thought Rearden, through the silence of many evenings, fighting the sudden access of that new emotion which he did not want to feel—there is an unspeakable evil in the world, you know it, and it’s no use dwelling on the details of it. You must work a little harder. Just a little harder. Don’t let it win.
The beams and girders of the Rearden Metal bridge were coming daily out of the rolling mills, and were being shipped to the site of the John Galt Line, where the first shapes of green-blue metal, swung into space to span the canyon, glittered in the first rays of the spring sun. He had no time for pain, no energy for anger. Within a few weeks, it was over; the blinding stabs of hatred ceased and did not return.
He was back in confident self-control on the evening when he telephoned Eddie Willers. “Eddie, I’m in New York, at the Wayne-Falkland. Come to have breakfast with me tomorrow morning. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
Eddie Willers went to the appointment with a heavy feeling of guilt. He had not recovered from the shock of the Equalization of Opportunity Bill; it had left a dull ache within him, like the black-and-blue mark of a blow. He disliked the sight of the city: it now looked as if it hid the threat of some malicious unknown. He dreaded facing one of the Bill’s victims: he felt almost as if he, Eddie Willers, shared the responsibility for it in some terrible way which he could not define.
When he saw Rearden, the feeling vanished. There was no hint suggesting a victim, in Rearden’s bearing. Beyond the windows of the hotel room, the spring sunlight of early morning sparkled on the windows of the city, the sky was a very pale blue that seemed young, the offices were still closed, and the city did not look as if it held malice, but as if it were joyously, hopefully ready to swing into action—in the same manner as Rearden. He looked refreshed by an untroubled sleep, he wore a dressing gown, he seemed impatient of the necessity to dress, unwilling to delay the