Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand [753]
“It’s your life,” she said.
“If you let me ask the chief, he’ll tell me, he.‘ll—”
“I won’t let you ask anyone.”
“But how do I know that you really have an order from Mr. Thompson?”
“You don’t. Maybe I haven’t. Maybe I’m acting on my own—and you’ll be punished for obeying me. Maybe I have—and you’ll be thrown in jail for disobeying. Maybe Dr. Ferris and Mr. Thompson agree about this. Maybe they don.‘t—and you have to defy one or the other. These are the things you have to decide. There is no one to ask, no one to call, no one to tell you. You will have to decide them yourself.”
“But I can’t decide! Why me?”
“Because it’s your body that’s barring my way.”
“But I can’t decide! I’m not supposed to decide!”
“I’ll count to three,” she said. “Then I’ll shoot.”
“Wait! Wait! I haven’t said yes or no!” he cried, cringing tighter against the door, as if immobility of mind and body were his best protection.
“One—” she counted; she could see his eyes staring at her in terror —“Two—” she could see that the gun held less terror for him than the alternative she offered—“Three.”
Calmly and impersonally, she, who would have hesitated to fire at an animal, pulled the trigger and fired straight at the heart of a man who had wanted to exist without the responsibility of consciousness.
Her gun was equipped with a silencer; there was no sound to attract anyone’s attention, only the thud of a body falling at her feet.
She picked up the key from the ground—then waited for a few brief moments, as had been agreed upon.
Francisco was first to join her, coming from behind a corner of the building, then Hank Rearden, then Ragnar Danneskjöld. There had been four guards posted at intervals among the trees, around the building. They were now disposed of: one was dead, three were left in the brush, bound and gagged.
She handed the key to Francisco without a word. He unlocked the door and went in, alone, leaving the door open to the width of an inch. The three others waited outside, by that opening.
The hall was lighted by a single naked bulb stuck in the middle of the ceiling. A guard stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the second .floor.
“Who are you?” he cried at the sight of Francisco entering as if he owned the place. “Nobody’s supposed to come in here tonight!”
“I did,” said Francisco.
“Why did Rusty let you in?”
“He must have had his reasons.”
“He wasn’t supposed to!”
“Somebody has changed your suppositions.” Francisco’s eyes were taking a lightning inventory of the place. A second guard stood on the landing at the turn of the stairs, looking down at them and listening.
“What’s your business?”
“Copper-mining.”
“Huh? I mean, who are you?”
“The name’s too long to tell you. I’ll tell it to your chief. Where is he?”
“I’m asking the questions!” But he backed a step away. “Don’t ... don’t you act like a big shot or I.‘ll—”
“Hey, Pete, he is!” cried the second guard, paralyzed by Francisco’s .manner.
The first one was struggling to ignore it; his voice grew louder with the growth of his fear, as he snapped at Francisco, “What are you after?”
“I said I’ll tell it to your chief. Where is he?”
“I’m asking the questions!”
“I’m not answering them.”
“Oh, you’re not, are you?” snarled Pete, who had but one recourse when in doubt: his hand jerked to the gun on his hip.
Francisco’s hand was too fast for the two men to see its motion, and his gun was too silent. What they saw and heard next was the gun flying out of Pete’s hand, along with a splatter of blood from his shattered fingers, and his muffled howl of pain. He collapsed, groaning. In the instant when the second guard grasped it, he saw that Francisco’s gun was aimed at him.
“Don’t shoot, mister!” he cried.
“Come down here with your hands up,” ordered Francisco, holding his gun aimed with one hand and waving a signal to the crack of the door with the other.
By the time the guard descended the stairs, Rearden was there to disarm him, and Danneskjöld to tie his hands and feet. The sight of Dagny seemed to frighten him more than the rest; he could not understand it: