Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand [495]
Beyond the window, at the edge of the table, storm clouds had wiped out the last remnants of light in the eastern sky. She wondered why she felt a sudden reluctance to look out, why she felt as if she wanted to cling to the golden patches of light on the wood of the table, on the buttered crust of the rolls, on the copper coffee pot, on Galt’s hair -to cling as to a small island on the edge of a void.
Then she heard her own voice asking suddenly, involuntarily, and she knew that this was the treason she had wanted to escape, “Do you permit any communication with the outside world?”
“. No.”
“Not any? Not even a note without return address?”
“No.”
“Not even a message, if no secret of yours were given away?”
“Not from here. Not during this month. Not to outsiders at any time.”
She noticed that she was avoiding his eyes, and she forced herself to lift her head and face him. His glance had changed; it was watchful, unmoving, implacably perceptive. He asked, looking at her as if he knew the reason of her query, “Do you wish to ask for a special exception?”
“No,” she answered, holding his glance.
Next morning, after breakfast, when she sat in her room, carefully placing a patch on the sleeve of Galt’s shirt, with her door closed, not to let him see her fumbling effort at an unfamiliar task, she heard the sound of a car stopping in front of the house.
She heard Galt’s steps hurrying across the living room, she heard him jerk the entrance door open and call out with the joyous anger of relief: “It’s about time!”
She rose to her feet, but stopped: she heard his voice, its tone abruptly changed and grave, as if in answer to the shock of some sight confronting him: “What’s the matter?”
“Hello, John,” said a clear, quiet voice that sounded steady, but weighted with exhaustion.
She sat down on her bed, feeling suddenly drained of strength: the voice was Francisco’s.
She heard Galt asking, his tone severe with concern, “What is it?”
“I’ll tell you afterwards.”
“Why are you so late?”
“I have to leave again in an hour.”
“To leave?”
“John, I just came to tell you that I won’t be able to stay here this year.”
There was a pause, then Galt asked gravely, his voice low, “Is it as bad as that—whatever it is?”
“Yes. I ... I might be back before the month is over. I don’t know.” He added, with the sound of a desperate effort, “I don’t know whether to hope to be done with it quickly or ... or not.”
“Francisco, could you stand a shock right now?”
“I? Nothing could shock me now.”
“There’s a person, here, in my guest room, whom you have to see. It will be a shock to you, so I think I’d better warn you in advance that this person is still a scab.”
“What? A scab? In your house?”
“Let me tell you how—”
“That’s something I want to see for myself!”
She heard Francisco’s contemptuous chuckle and the rush of his steps, she saw her door flung open, and she noticed dimly that it was Galt who closed it, leaving them alone.
She did not know how long Francisco stood looking at her, because the first moment that she grasped fully was when she saw him on his knees, holding onto her, his face pressed to her legs, the moment when she felt as if the shudder that ran through his body and left him still, had run into hers and made her able to move.
She saw, in astonishment, that her hand was moving gently over his hair, while she was thinking that she had no right to do it and feeling as if a current of serenity were flowing from her hand, enveloping them both, smoothing the past. He did not move, he made no sound, as if the act of holding her said everything he had to say.
When he raised his head, he looked as she had felt when she had opened her eyes in the valley: he looked as if no pain had ever existed in the world. He was laughing.
“Dagny, Dagny, Dagny”—his voice sounded, not as if a confession