Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand [466]
It was oil that ran in a glittering curve from the mouth of a pipe into a tank at the foot of the wall, as the only confession of the tremendous secret struggle inside the stone, as the unobtrusive purpose of all the intricate machinery—but the machinery did not resemble the installations of an oil derrick, and she knew that she was looking at the unborn secret of the Buena Esperanza Pass, she knew that this was oil drawn out of shale by some method men had considered impossible.
Ellis Wyatt stood on a ridge, watching the glass dial of a gauge imbedded in the rock. He saw the car stopping below, and called, “Hi, Dagny! Be with you in a minute!”
There were two other men working with him: a big, muscular roughneck, at a pump halfway up the wall, and a young boy, by the tank on the ground. The young boy had blond hair and a face with an unusual purity of form. She felt certain that she knew this face, but she could not recall where she had seen it. The boy caught her puzzled glance, grinned and, as if to help her, whistled softly, almost inaudibly the first notes of Halley’s Fifth Concerto. It was the young brakeman of the Comet.
She laughed. “It was the Fifth Concerto by Richard Halley, wasn’t .it?”
“Sure,” he answered. “But do you think I’d tell that to a scab?”
“A what?”
“What am I paying you for?” asked Ellis Wyatt, approaching; the boy chuckled, darting back to seize the lever he had abandoned for a moment. “It’s Miss Taggart who couldn’t fire you, if you loafed on the job. I can.”
“That’s one of the reasons why I quit the railroad, Miss Taggart,” said the boy.
“Did you know that I stole him from you?” said Wyatt. “He used to be your best brakeman and now he’s my best grease-monkey, but neither one of us is going to hold him permanently.”
.“Who is?”
“Richard Halley. Music. He’s Halley’s best pupil.”
She smiled. “I know, this is a place where one employs nothing but aristocrats for the lousiest kinds of jobs.”
“They’re all aristocrats, that’s true,” said Wyatt, “because they know that there’s no such thing as a lousy job—only lousy men who don’t care to do it.”
The roughneck was watching them from above, listening with curiosity. She glanced up at him, he looked like a truck driver, so she asked, “What were you outside? A professor of comparative philology, I suppose?”
“No, ma.‘am,” he answered. “I was a truck driver.” He added, “But that’s not what I wanted to remain.”
Ellis Wyatt was looking at the place around them with a kind of youthful pride eager for acknowledgment: it was the pride of a host at a formal reception in a drawing room, and the eagerness of an artist at the opening of his show in a gallery. She smiled and asked, pointing at the machinery, “Shale oil?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s the process which you were working to develop while you were on earth?” She said it involuntarily and she gasped a little at her own words.
He laughed. “While I was in hell—yes. I’m on earth now.”
“How much do you produce?”
“Two hundred barrels a day.”
A note of sadness came back into her voice: “It’s the process by which you once intended to fill five tank-trains a day.”
“Dagny,” he said earnestly, pointing at his tank, “one gallon of it is worth more than a trainful back there in hell—because this is mine, all of it, every single drop of it, to be spent on nothing but myself.” He raised his smudged hand, displaying the greasy stains as a treasure, and a black drop on the tip of his finger flashed like a gem in the sun. “Mine,” he said. “Have you let them beat you into forgetting what that word means, what it feels like? You should give yourself a chance to relearn it.”
“You’re hidden in a hole in the wilderness,” she said bleakly, “and you’re producing two hundred barrels of oil, when you could have flooded the world with it.”
“What