Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand [334]
She spoke in a low, flat voice, looking down at the spot of light that shimmered in the liquid as her fingers turned the stem of her glass once in a while. She showed no emotion, but her voice had the intense monotone of a prayer:
“Francisco ... if he could live through that night, what right have I to complain? What does it matter, how I feel just now? He built that bridge. I have to hold it for him. I can’t let it go the way of the bridge of the Atlantic Southern. I feel almost as if he’d know it, if I let that happen, he’d know it that night when he was alone over the river ... no, that’s nonsense, but here’s what I feel: any man who knows what Nat Taggart felt that night, any man living now and capable of knowing it—it’s him that I would betray if I let it happen ... and I can’t.”
“Dagny, if Nat Taggart were living now, what would he do?”
She answered involuntarily, with a swift, bitter chuckle, “He wouldn’t last a minute!”—then corrected herself: “No, he would. He would find a way to fight them.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
She noticed some tense, cautious quality in the attentive way he watched her as he leaned forward and asked, “Dagny, the men of your Board of Directors are no match for Nat Taggart, are they? There’s no form of contest in which they could beat him, there’s nothing he’d have to fear from them, there’s no mind, no will, no power in the bunch of them to equal one-thousandth of his.”
“No, of course not.”
“Then why is it that throughout men’s history the Nat Taggarts, who make the world, have always won—and always lost it to the men of the Board?”
“I ... don’t know.”
“How could men who’re afraid to hold an unqualified opinion about the weather, fight Nat Taggart? How could they seize his achievement, if he chose to defend it? Dagny, he fought with every weapon he possessed, except the most important one. They could not have won, if we -he and the rest of us—had not given the world away to them.”
“Yes. You gave it away to them. Ellis Wyatt did. Ken Danagger did. I won’t.”
He smiled. “Who built the John Galt Line for them?”
He saw only the faintest contraction of her mouth, but he knew that the question was like a blow across an open wound. Yet she answered quietly, “I did.”
“For this kind of end?”
“For the men who did not hold out, would not fight and gave up.”
“Don’t you see that no other end was possible?”
“No.”
“How much injustice are you willing to take?”
“As much as I’m able to fight.”
“What will you do now? Tomorrow?”
She said calmly, looking straight at him with the faintly proud look of stressing her calm, “Start to tear it up.”
“What?”
“The John Gait Line. Start to tear it up as good as with my own hands—with my own mind, by my own instructions. Get it ready to be closed, then tear it up and use its pieces to reinforce the transcontinental track. There’s a lot of work to do. It will keep me busy.” The calm cracked a little, in the faintest change of her voice: “You know, I’m looking forward to it. I’m glad that I’ll have to do it myself. That’s why Nat Taggart worked all that night—just to keep going. It’s not so bad as long as there’s something one can do. And I’ll know, at least, that I’m saving the main line.”
“Dagny,” he asked very quietly—and she wondered what made her feel that he looked as if his personal fate hung on her answer, “what if it were the main line that you had to dismember?”
She answered irresistibly, “Then I’d let the last engine run over me!” -but added, “No. That’s just self-pity. I wouldn’t.”
He said gently, “I know you wouldn’t. But you’d wish you could.”
“Yes.”
He smiled, not looking at her; it was a mocking smile, but it was a smile of pain and the mockery was directed at himself. She wondered what made her certain of it; but she knew his face so well that she would always know what he felt, even though she could not guess