Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand [292]
Rearden stood still and caught a brief instant when Francisco, not moving, looked at him with the hint of an amused smile that was like a wink between conspirators at a secret they both understood, but would not acknowledge. It was only an instant, almost too brief to grasp, because it seemed to him that Francisco rose at once at his entrance, with a movement of courteous deference. The movement suggested a strict formality, the denial of any attempt at presumption—but it stressed the intimacy of the fact that he uttered no word of greeting or explanation.
Rearden asked, his voice hard, “What are you doing here?”
“I thought that you would want to see me tonight, Mr. Rearden.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason that has kept you so late in your office. You were not working.”
“How long have you been sitting here?”
“An hour or two.”
“Why didn’t you knock at my door?”
“Would you have allowed me to come in?”
“You’re late in asking that question.”
“Shall I leave, Mr. Rearden?”
Rearden pointed to the door of his office. “Come in.”
Turning the lights on in the office, moving with unhurried control, Rearden thought that he must not allow himself to feel anything, but felt the color of life returning to him in the tensely quiet eagerness of an emotion which he would not identify. What he told himself consciously was: Be careful.
He sat down on the edge of his desk, crossed his arms, looked at Francisco, who remained standing respectfully before him, and asked with the cold hint of a smile, “Why did you come here?”
“You don’t want me to answer, Mr. Rearden. You wouldn’t admit to me or to yourself how desperately lonely you are tonight. If you don’t question me, you won’t feel obliged to deny it. Just accept what you do know, anyway: that I know it.”
Taut like a string pulled by anger against the impertinence at one end and by admiration for the frankness at the other, Rearden answered, “I’ll admit it, if you wish. What should it matter to me, that you know it?”
“That I know and care, Mr. Rearden. I’m the only man around you who does.”
“Why should you care? And why should I need your help tonight?”
“Because it’s not easy to have to damn the man who meant most to you.”
“I wouldn’t damn you if you’d only stay away from me.”
Francisco’s eyes widened a little, then he grinned and said, “I was speaking of Mr. Danagger.”
For an instant, Rearden looked as if he wanted to slap his own face, then he laughed softly and said, “All right. Sit down.”
He waited to see what advantage Francisco would take of it now, but Francisco obeyed him in silence, with a smile that had an oddly boyish quality: a look of triumph and gratitude, together.
“I don’t damn Ken Danagger,” said Rearden.
“You don’t?” The two words seemed to fall with a singular emphasis; they were pronounced very quietly, almost cautiously, with no remnant of a smile on Francisco’s face.
“No. I don’t try to prescribe how much a man should have to bear. If he broke, it’s not for me to judge him.”
“If he broke ... ?”
“Well, didn’t he?”
Francisco leaned back; his smile returned, but it was not a happy smile. “What will his disappearance do to you?”
“I will just have to work a little harder.”
Francisco looked at a steel bridge traced in black strokes against red steam beyond the window, and said, pointing, “Every one of those girders has a limit to the load it can carry. What’s yours?”
Rearden laughed. “Is that what you’re afraid of? Is that why you came here? Were you afraid I’d break? Did you want to save me, as Dagny Taggart wanted to save Ken Danagger? She tried to reach him in time, but couldn’t.”
“She did? I didn’t know it. Miss Taggart and I disagree about many things.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to vanish. Let them all give up and stop working. I won’t. I don’t know my limit and don’t care. All I have to know is that I can’t be stopped.”
“Any man can be stopped, Mr. Rearden.”
“How?”
“It’s only a matter of knowing man’s motive power.”
“What