Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand [734]
Dr. Stadler’s gasp was a muffled scream, as if the immobility of the figure on the window sill had served as a silent reflector and had suddenly made him see the full meaning of his own words.
“No!” moaned Dr. Stadler, moving his head from side to side, to escape the unmoving green eyes. “No! ... No! ... No!”
Galt’s voice had the same unbending austerity as his eyes: “You have said everything I wanted to say to you.”
Dr. Stadler banged his fists against the door; when it was opened, he ran out of the room.
For three days, no one entered Galt’s suite except the guards who brought his meals. Early on the evening of the fourth day, the door opened to admit Chick Morrison with two companions. Chick Morrison was dressed in dinner clothes, and his smile was nervous, but a shade more confident than usual. One of his companions was a valet. The other was a muscular man whose face seemed to clash with his tuxedo: it was a stony face with sleepy eyelids, pale, darting eyes and a prizefighter’s broken nose; his skull was shaved except for a patch of faded blond curls on top; he kept his right hand in the pocket of his trousers.
“You will please dress, Mr. Galt,” said Chick Morrison persuasively, pointing to the door of the bedroom, where a closet had been filled with expensive garments which Galt had not chosen to wear. “You will please put on your dinner clothes.” He added, “This is an order, Mr. Galt.”
Galt walked silently into the bedroom. The three men followed. Chick Morrison sat on the edge of a chair, starting and discarding one cigarette after another. The valet went through too many too courteous motions, helping Galt to dress, handing him his shirt studs, holding his coat. The muscular man stood in a corner, his hand in his pocket. No one said a .word.
“You will please co-operate, Mr. Galt,” said Chick Morrison, when Galt was ready, and indicated the door with a courtly gesture of invitation to proceed.
So swiftly that no one could catch the motion of his hand, the muscular man was holding Galt’s arm and pressing an invisible gun against his ribs. “Don’t make any false moves,” he said in an expressionless voice.
“I never do,” said Galt.
Chick Morrison opened the door. The valet stayed behind. The three figures in dinner clothes walked silently down the hall to the elevator.
They remained silent in the elevator, the clicks of the flashing numbers above the door marking their downward progress.
The elevator stopped on the mezzanine floor. Two armed soldiers preceded them and two others followed, as they walked through the long, dim corridors. The corridors were deserted except for armed sentinels posted at the turns. The muscular man’s right arm was linked to Galt’s left; the gun remained invisible to any possible observer. Galt felt the small pressure of the muzzle against his side; the pressure was expertly maintained: