Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand [287]
When she raised her head to glance at the clock, the dial said: 3:30. “I know that this is inexcusable, Miss Taggart.” The note of apprehension was obvious in her voice now. “I am unable to understand it.”
“Would you mind telling Mr. Danagger that I’m here?”
“I can.‘t!” It was almost a cry; she saw Dagny’s astonished glance and felt obliged to explain: “Mr. Danagger called me, on the interoffice communicator, and told me that he was not to be interrupted under any circumstances or for any reason whatever.”
“When did he do that?”
The moment’s pause was like a small air cushion for the answer: “Two hours ago.”
Dagny looked at the closed door of Danagger’s office. She could hear the sound of a voice beyond the door, but so faintly that she could not tell whether it was the voice of one man or the conversation of two; she could not distinguish the words or the emotional quality of the tone: it was only a low, even progression of sounds that seemed normal and did not convey the pitch of raised voices.
“How long has Mr. Danagger been in conference?” she asked.
“Since one o.‘clock,” said the secretary grimly, then added in apology, “It was an unscheduled caller, or Mr. Danagger would never have permitted this to happen.”
The door was not locked, thought Dagny; she felt an unreasoning desire to tear it open and walk in—it was only a few wooden boards with a brass knob, it would require only a small muscular contraction of her arm—but she looked away, knowing that the power of a civilized order and of Ken Danagger’s right was more impregnable a barrier than any lock.
She found herself staring at the stubs of her cigarettes in the ashtray stand beside her, and wondered why it gave her a sharper feeling of apprehension. Then she realized that she was thinking of Hugh Akston: she had written to him, at his diner in Wyoming, asking him to tell her where he had obtained the cigarette with the dollar sign; her letter had come back, with a postal inscription to inform her that he had moved away, leaving no forwarding address.
She told herself angrily that this had no connection with the present moment and that she had to control her nerves. But her hand jerked to press the button of the ashtray and make the cigarette stubs vanish inside the stand.
As she looked up, her eyes met the glance of the secretary watching her. “I am sorry, Miss Taggart. I don’t know what to do about it.” It was an openly desperate plea. “I don’t dare interrupt.”
Dagny asked slowly, as a demand, in defiance of office etiquette, “Who is with Mr. Danagger?”
“I don’t know, Miss Taggart. I have never seen the gentleman before.” She noticed the sudden, fixed stillness of Dagny’s eyes and added, “I think it’s a childhood friend of Mr. Danagger.”
“Oh!” said Dagny, relieved.
“He came in unannounced and asked to see Mr. Danagger and said that this was an appointment which Mr. Danagger had made with him forty years ago.”
“How old is Mr. Danagger?”
“Fifty-two,” said the secretary. She added reflectively, in the tone of a casual remark, “Mr. Danagger started working at the age of twelve.” After another silence, she added, “The strange thing is that the visitor does not look as if he’s even forty years old. He seems to be a man in his thirties.”
“Did he give his name?”
“No.”
“What does he look like?”
The secretary smiled with sudden animation, as if she were about to utter an enthusiastic compliment, but the smile vanished abruptly. “I don’t know,” she answered uneasily. “He’s hard to describe. He has a strange face.”
They had been silent for a long time, and the hands of the dial were approaching 3:50 when the buzzer rang