Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand [383]
When he raised his head, Chalmers saw that the car stood intact and still; he heard the moans of his companions and the first shriek of Laura Bradford’s hysterics. He crawled along the floor to the doorway, wrenched it open, and tumbled down the steps. Far ahead, on the side of a curve, he saw moving flashlights and a red glow at a spot where the engine had no place to be. He stumbled through the darkness, bumping into half-clothed figures that waved the futile little flares of matches. Somewhere along the line, he saw a man with a flashlight and seized his arm. It was the conductor.
“What happened?” gasped Chalmers.
“Split rail,” the conductor answered impassively. “The engine went off the track.”
“Off ... ?”
“On its side.”
“Anybody . . . killed?”
“No. The engineer’s all right. The fireman is hurt.”
“Split rail? What do you mean, split rail?”
The conductor’s face had an odd look: it was grim, accusing and closed. “Rail wears out, Mr. Chalmers,” he answered with a strange kind of emphasis. “Particularly on curves.”
“Didn’t you know that it was worn out?”
“We knew.”
“Well, why didn’t you have it replaced?”
“It was going to be replaced. But Mr. Locey cancelled that.”
“Who is Mr. Locey?”
“The man who is not our Operating Vice-President.”
Chalmers wondered why the conductor seemed to look at him as if something about the catastrophe were his fault. “Well . . . well, aren’t you going to put the engine back on the track?”
“That engine’s never going to be put back on any track, from the looks of it.”
“But . . . but it’s got to move us!”
“It can’t.”
Beyond the few moving flares and the dulled sounds of screams, Chalmers sensed suddenly, not wanting to look at it, the black immensity of the mountains, the silence of hundreds of uninhabited miles, and the precarious strip of a ledge hanging between a wall of rock and an abyss. He gripped the conductor’s arm tighter.
“But ... but what are we going to do?”
“The engineer’s gone to call Winston.”
“Call? How?”
“There’s a phone couple of miles down the track.”
“Will they get us out of here?”
“They will.”
“But ...” Then his mind made a connection with the past and the future, and his voice rose to a scream for the first time: “How long will we have to wait?”
“I don’t know,” said the conductor. He threw Chalmers’ hand off his arm, and walked away.
The night operator of Winston Station listened to the phone message, dropped the receiver and raced up the stairs to shake the station agent out of bed. The station agent was a husky, surly drifter who had been assigned to the job ten days ago, by order of the new division superintendent. He stumbled dazedly to his feet, but he was knocked awake when the operator’s words reached his brain.
“What?” he gasped. “Jesus! The Comet? . . . Well, don’t stand there shaking! Call Silver Springs!”
The night dispatcher of the Division Headquarters at Silver Springs listened to the message, then telephoned Dave Mitchum, the new superintendent of the Colorado Division.
“The Comet?” gasped Mitchum, his hand pressing the telephone receiver to his ear, his feet hitting the floor and throwing him upright, out of bed. “The engine done for? The Diesel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh God! Oh, God Almighty! What are we going to do?” Then, remembering his position, he added, “Well, send out the wrecking train.”
“I have.”
“Call the operator at Sherwood to hold all traffic.”
“I have.”
“What have you got on the sheet?”
“The Army Freight Special, westbound. But it’s not due for about four hours. It’s running late.”
“I’ll be right down.... Wait, listen, get Bill, Sandy and Clarence down by the time I get there. There’s going to be hell to pay!”
Dave Mitchum had always complained about injustice, because, he said, he had always had bad luck. He explained it by speaking darkly about the conspiracy of the big fellows, who would never give him a chance, though he did not explain just whom he meant by “the big fellows.” Seniority of service was his favorite topic of complaint and sole standard of value; he had been in the railroad business