Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand [538]
Dr. Ferris opened a briefcase, produced some pages of neatly typed copy and turned to Dr. Stadler. “You are to be the climax of the broadcast,” he said. “You will speak last, at the end of the hour.” He extended the pages. “Here’s the speech you’ll make.” His eyes said the rest: they said that his choice of words had not been accidental.
Dr. Stadler took the pages, but held them between the tips of two straight fingers, as one might hold a scrap of waste paper about to be tossed aside. “I haven’t asked you to appoint yourself as my ghost writer,” he said. The sarcasm of the voice gave Ferris his clue: this was not a moment for sarcasm.
“I couldn’t have allowed your invaluable time to be taken up by the writing of radio speeches,” said Dr. Ferris. “I felt certain that you would appreciate it.” He said it in a tone of spurious politeness intended to be recognized as spurious, the tone of tossing to a beggar the alms of face-saving.
Dr. Stadler’s answer disturbed him: Dr. Stadler did not choose to answer or to glance down at the manuscript.
“Lack of faith,” a beefy speaker was snarling on the platform, in the tone of a street brawl, “lack of faith is the only thing we got to fear! If we have faith in the plans of our leaders, why, the plans will work and we’ll all have prosperity and ease and plenty. It’s the fellows who go around doubting and destroying our morale, it’s they who’re keeping us in shortages and misery. But we’re not going to let them do it much longer, we’re here to protect the people—and if any of those doubting smarties come around, believe you me, we’ll take care of them!”
“It would be unfortunate,” said Dr. Ferris in a soft voice, “to arouse popular resentment against the State Science Institute at an explosive time like the present. There’s a great deal of dissatisfaction and unrest in the country—and if people should misunderstand the nature of the new invention, they’re liable to vent their rage on all scientists. Scientists have never been popular with the masses.”
“Peace,” a tall, willowy woman was sighing into the microphone, “this invention is a great, new instrument of peace. It will protect us from the aggressive designs of selfish enemies, it will allow us to breathe freely and to learn to love our fellow men.” She had a bony face with a mouth embittered at cocktail parties, and wore a flowing pale blue gown, suggesting the concert garment of a harpist. “It may well be considered as that miracle which was thought impossible in history—the dream of the ages—the final synthesis of science and love!”
Dr. Stadler looked at the faces in the grandstands. They were sitting quietly now, they were listening, but their eyes had an ebbing look of twilight, a look of fear in the process of being accepted as permanent, the look of raw wounds being dimmed by the veil of infection. They knew, as he knew it, that they were the targets of the shapeless funnels protruding from the mushroom building’s dome—and he wondered in what manner they were now extinguishing their minds and escaping that knowledge; he knew that the words they were eager to absorb and believe were the chains slipping in to hold them, like the goats, securely within the range of those funnels. They were eager to believe; he saw the tightening lines of their lips, he saw the occasional glances of suspicion they threw at their neighbors—as if the horror that threatened them was not the sound ray, but the men who would make them acknowledge it as horror. Their eyes were veiling over, but the remnant look of a wound was a cry for help.
“Why do you think they think?” said Dr. Ferris softly. “Reason is the scientist’s only weapon—and reason has no power over men, has it? At a time like ours, with the country falling apart, with the mob driven by blind desperation to the edge of open riots and violence—order must be maintained by any means available. What can we do when we have to deal with people?”
Dr. Stadler did not answer.
A fat, jellied woman, with an inadequate brassi