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By Root 5095 0

him, what profession he had chosen, loved and abandoned in order to join this valley. She could make no guess; none seemed to fit; she caught herself in the preposterous feeling of wishing that he had no profession at all, because any work seemed too dangerous for his incredible kind of beauty. It was an impersonal feeling, she did not look at him as at a man, but as at an animated work of art—and it seemed to be a stressed indignity of the outer world that a perfection such as his should be subjected to the shocks, the strains, the scars reserved for any man who loved his work. But the feeling seemed the more preposterous, because the lines of his face had the sort of hardness for which no danger on earth was a match.

“No, Miss Taggart,” he said suddenly, catching her glance, “you’ve never seen me before.”

She was shocked to realize that she had been studying him openly. “How do you happen to know who I am?” she asked.

“First, I’ve seen your pictures in the papers many times. Second, you’re the only woman left in the outer world, to the best of our knowledge, who’d be allowed to enter Galt’s Gulch. Third, you’re the only woman who’d have the courage—and prodigality—still to remain a scab.”

“What made you certain that I was a scab?”

“If you weren.‘t, you’d know that it’s not this valley, but the view of life held by men in the outer world that is a prehistorical mirage.”

They heard the sound of the motor and saw the car stopping below, in front of the house. She noticed the swiftness with which he rose to his feet at the sight of Galt in the car; if it were not for the obvious personal eagerness, it would have looked like an instinctive gesture of military respect.

She noticed the way Galt stopped, when he entered and saw his visitor. She noticed that Galt smiled, but that his voice was oddly low, almost solemn, as if weighted with unconfessed relief, when he said very quietly, “Hello.”

“Hi, John,” said the visitor gaily.

She noticed that their handshake came an instant too late and lasted an instant too long, like the handshake of men who had not been certain that their previous meeting would not be their last.

Galt turned to her. “Have you met?” he asked, addressing them both.

“Not exactly,” said the visitor.

“Miss Taggart, may I present Ragnar Danneskjöld?”

She knew what her face had looked like, when she heard Danneskjöld.‘s voice as from a great distance: “You don’t have to be frightened, Miss Taggart. I’m not dangerous to anyone in Galt’s Gulch.”

She could only shake her head, before she recaptured her voice to say, “It’s not what you’re doing to anyone . . . it’s what they’re doing to you. . . .”

His laughter swept her out of her moment’s stupor. “Be careful, Miss Taggart. If that’s how you’re beginning to feel, you won’t remain a scab for long.” He added, “But you ought to start by adopting the right things from the people in Galt’s Gulch, not their mistakes: they’ve spent twelve years worrying about me—needlessly.” He glanced at Galt.

“When did you get in?” asked Galt.

“Late last night.”

“Sit down. You’re going to have breakfast with us.”

“But where’s Francisco? Why isn’t he here yet?”

“I don’t know,” said Galt, frowning slightly. “I asked at the airport, just now. Nobody’s heard from him.”

As she turned to the kitchen, Galt moved to follow. “No,” she said, “it’s my job today.”

“Let me help you.”

“This is the place where one doesn’t ask for help, isn’t it?”

He smiled. “That’s right.”

She had never experienced the pleasure of motion, of walking as if her feet had no weight to carry, as if the support of the cane in her hand were merely a superfluous touch of elegance, the pleasure of feeling her steps trace swift, straight lines, of sensing the faultless, spontaneous precision of her gestures—as she experienced it while placing their food on the table in front of the two men. Her bearing told them that she knew they were watching her—she held her head like an actress on a stage, like a woman in a ballroom, like the winner of a silent contest.

“Francisco will be glad to know that it’s you