Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand [373]
He walked, thinking that even this sight still retained the power to be of value: it gave him the promise of a long stretch of space undisturbed by human intrusion.
The man who stepped suddenly out into the road must have come from behind the willow tree, but so swiftly that it seemed as if he had sprung up from the middle of the highway. Rearden’s hand went to the gun in his pocket, but stopped: he knew—by the proud posture of the body standing in the open, by the straight line of the shoulders against the starlit sky—that the man was not a bandit. When he heard the voice, he knew that the man was not a beggar.
“I should like to speak to you, Mr. Rearden.”
The voice had the firmness, the clarity and the special courtesy peculiar to men who are accustomed to giving orders.
“Go ahead,” said Rearden, “provided you don’t intend to ask me for help or money.”
The man’s garments were rough, but efficiently trim. He wore dark trousers and a dark blue windbreaker closed tight at his throat, prolonging the lines of his long, slender figure. He wore a dark blue cap, and all that could be seen of him in the night were his hands, his face and a patch of gold-blond hair on his temple. The hands held no weapon, only a package wrapped in burlap, the size of a carton of cigarettes.
“No, Mr. Rearden,” he said, “I don’t intend to ask you for money, but to return it to you.”
“To return money?”
“Yes.”
“What money?”
“A small refund on a very large debt.”
“Owed by you?”
“No, not by me. It is only a token payment, but I want you to accept it as proof that if we live long enough, you and I, every dollar of that debt will be returned to you.”
“What debt?”
“The money that was taken from you by force.”
He extended the package to Rearden, flipping the burlap open. Rearden saw the starlight run like fire along a mirror-smooth surface. He knew, by its weight and texture, that what he held was a bar of solid gold.
He looked from the bar to the man’s face, but the face seemed harder and less revealing than the surface of the metal.
“Who are you?” asked Rearden.
“The friend of the friendless.”
“Did you come here to give this to me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mean that you had to stalk me at night, on a lonely road, in order, not to rob me, but to hand me a bar of gold?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“When robbery is done in open daylight by sanction of the law, as it is done today, then any act of honor or restitution has to be hidden underground.”
“What made you think that I’d accept a gift of this kind?”
“It is not a gift, Mr. Rearden. It is your own money. But I have one favor to ask of you. It is a request, not a condition, because there can be no such thing as conditional property. The gold is yours, so you are free to use it as you please. But I risked my life to bring it to you tonight, so I am asking, as a favor, that you save it for the future or spend it on yourself. On nothing but your own comfort and pleasure. Do not give it away and, above all, do not put it into your business.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want it to be of any benefit to anybody but you. Otherwise, I will have broken an oath taken long ago—as I am breaking every rule I had set for myself by speaking to you tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have been collecting this money for you for a long time. But I did not intend to see you or tell you about it or give it to you until much later.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because I couldn’t stand it any longer.”
“Stand what?”
“I thought that I had seen everything one could see and that there was nothing I could not stand seeing. But when they took Rearden Metal away from you, it was too much, even for me. I know that you don’t need this gold at present. What you need is the justice which it represents, and the knowledge