Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand [754]
“Now,” said Francisco, “where is your chief?”
The guard jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. “Up there.”
“How many guards are there in the building?”
“Nine.”
“Where are they?”
“One’s on the cellar stairs. The others are all up there.”
“Where?”
“In the big laboratory. The one with the window.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“What are these rooms?” He pointed at the doors leading off the hall.
“They’re labs, too. They’re locked for the night.”
“Who’s got the key?”
“Him.” He jerked his head at Pete.
Rearden and Danneskjöld took the key from Pete’s pocket and hurried soundlessly to check the rooms, while Francisco continued, “Are there any other men in the building?”
“No.”
“Isn’t there a prisoner here?”
“Oh ... yeah, I guess so. There must be, or they wouldn.‘t’ve kept us all on duty.”
“Is he still here?”
“That, I don’t know. They’d never tell us.”
“Is Dr. Ferris here?”
“No. He left ten-fifteen minutes ago.”
“Now, that laboratory upstairs—does it open right on the stair landing?”
“Yes.”
“How many doors are there?”
“Three. It’s the one in the middle.”
“What are the other rooms?”
“There’s the small laboratory on one side and Dr. Ferris’ office on the other.”
“Are there connecting doors between them?”
.“Yes.”
Francisco was turning to his companions, when the guard said pleadingly, “Mister, can I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Who are you?”
He answered in the solemn tone of a drawing-room introduction, “Francisco Domingo Carlos Andres Sebastián d.‘Anconia.”
He left the guard gaping at him and turned to a brief, whispered consultation with his companions.
In a moment, it was Rearden who went up the stairs—swiftly, soundlessly and alone.
Cages containing rats and guinea pigs were stacked against the walls of the laboratory; they had been put there by the guards who were playing poker on the long laboratory table in the center. Six of them were playing; two were standing in opposite corners, watching the entrance door, guns in hand. It was Rearden’s face that saved him from being shot on sight when he entered: his face was too well known to them and too unexpected. He saw eight heads staring at him with recognition and with inability to believe what they were recognizing.
He stood at the door, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, with the casual, confident manner of a business executive.
“Who is in charge here?” he asked in the politely abrupt voice of a man who does not waste time.
“You ... you’re not ...” stammered a lanky, surly individual at the card table.
“I’m Hank Rearden. Are you the chief?”
“Yeah! But where in blazes do you come from?”
“From New York.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Then, I take it, you have not been notified.”
“Should I have ... I mean, about what?” The swift, touchy, resentful suspicion that his superiors had slighted his authority, was obvious in the chief’s voice. He was a tall, emaciated man, with jerky movements, a sallow face and the restless, unfocused eyes of a drug addict.
“About my business here.”
“You ... you can’t have any business here,” he snapped, torn between the fear of a bluff and the fear of having been left out of some important, top-level decision. “Aren’t you a traitor and a deserter and a—”
“I see that you’re behind the times, my good man.”
The seven others in the room were staring at Rearden with an awed, superstitious uncertainty. The two who held guns still held them aimed at him in the impassive manner of automatons. He did not seem to take notice of them.
“What is it you say is your business here?” snapped the chief.
“I am here to take charge of the prisoner whom you are to deliver to me.”
“If you came from headquarters, you’d know that I’m not supposed to know anything about any prisoner—and that nobody is to touch him!”
“Except me.”
The chief leaped to his feet, darted to a telephone and seized the receiver. He had not raised it halfway to his ear when he dropped it