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We
’
re
trying
to
keep
the
Ferris
boys
in
check
,
but
.
.
.
You
see
,
they
’
re
set
against
any
surrender
to
John
Galt
.
They
don
’
t
want
us
to
deal
with
him
.
They
don
’
t
want
us
to
find
him
.
I
wouldn
’
t
put
anything
past
them
.
If
they
found
him
first
,
they
’
d
—
there
’
s
no
telling
what
they
might
do
.
.
.
That
’
s
what
worries
me
.
Why
doesn
’
t
he
answer
?
Why
hasn
’
t
he
answered
us
at
all
?
What
if
they
’
ve
found
him
and
killed
him
?
I
wouldn
’
t
know
.
.
.
So
I
hoped
that
perhaps
you
had
some
way
.
.
.
some
means
of
knowing
that
he
’
s
still
alive
.
.
.
"
His
voice
trailed
off
into
a
question
mark
.
The
whole
of
her
resistance
against
a
rush
of
liquefying
terror
went
into
the
effort
to
keep
her
voice
as
stiff
as
her
knees
,
long
enough
to
say
,
"
I
do
not
know
,
"
and
her
knees
stiff
enough
to
carry
her
out
of
the
room
.
From
behind
the
rotted
posts
of
what
had
once
been
a
corner
vegetable
stand
,
Dagny
glanced
furtively
back
at
the
street
:
the
rare
lamp
posts
broke
the
street
into
separate
islands
,
she
could
see
a
pawnshop
in
the
first
patch
of
light
,
a
saloon
in
the
next
,
a
church
in
the
farthest
,
and
black
gaps
between
them
;
the
sidewalks
were
deserted
;
it
was
hard
to
tell
,
but
the
street
seemed
empty
.
She
turned
the
corner
,
with
deliberately
resonant
steps
,
then
stopped
abruptly
to
listen
:
it
was
hard
to
tell
whether
the
abnormal
tightness
inside
her
chest
was
the
sound
of
her
own
heartbeats
,
and
hard
to
distinguish
it
from
the
sound
of
distant
wheels
and
from
the
glassy
rustle
which
was
the
East
River
somewhere
close
by
;
but
she
heard
no
sound
of
human
steps
behind
her
.
She
jerked
her
shoulders
,
it
was
part
-
shrug
,
part
-
shudder
,
and
she
walked
faster
.
A
rusty
clock
in
some
unlighted
cavern
coughed
out
the
hour
of
four
A
.
M
.
The
fear
of
being
followed
did
not
seem
fully
real
,
as
no
fear
could
be
real
to
her
now
.
She
wondered
whether
the
unnatural
lightness
of
her
body
was
a
state
of
tension
or
relaxation
;
her
body
seemed
drawn
so
tightly
that
she
felt
as
if
it
were
reduced
to
a
single
attribute
:
to
the
power
of
motion
;
her
mind
seemed
inaccessibly
relaxed
,
like
a
motor
set
to
the
automatic
control
of
an
absolute
no
longer
to
be
questioned
.
If
a
naked
bullet
could
feel
in
mid
-
flight
,
this
is
what
it
would
feel
,
she
thought
;
just
the
motion
and
the
goal
,
nothing
else
.
She
thought
it
vaguely
,
distantly
,
as
if
her
own
person
were
unreal
;
only
the
word
"
naked
"
seemed
to
reach
her
:
naked
.
.
.
stripped
of
all
concern
but
for
the
target
.
.
.
for
the
number
"
367
,
"
the
number
of
a
house
on
the
East
River
,
which
her
mind
kept
repeating
,
the
number
it
had
so
long
been
forbidden
to
consider
.
Three
-
sixty
-
seven
—
she
thought
,
looking
for
an
invisible
shape
ahead
,
among
the
angular
forms
of
tenements
—
three
-
sixty
-
seven
.
.
.
that
is
where
he
lives
.
.
.
if
he
lives
at
all
.
.
.
Her
calm
,
her
detachment
and
the
confidence
of
her
steps
came
from
the
certainty
that
this
was
an
"
if
"
with
which
she
could
not
exist
any
longer
.
She
had
existed
with
it
for
ten
days
—
and
the
nights
behind
her
were
a
single
progression
that
had
brought
her
to
this
night
,
as
if
the
momentum
now
driving
her
steps
were
the
sound
of
her
own
steps
still
ringing
,
unanswered
,
in
the
tunnels
of
the
Terminal
.
She
had
searched
for
him
through
the
tunnels
,
she
had
walked
for
hours
,
night
after
night
—
the
hours
of
the
shift
he
had
once
worked
—
through
the
underground
passages
and
platforms
and
shops
and
every
twist
of
abandoned
tracks
,
asking
no
questions
of
anyone
,
offering
no
explanations
of
her
presence
.
She
had
walked
,
with
no
sense
of
fear
or
hope
,
moved
by
a
feeling
of
desperate
loyalty
that
was
almost
a
feeling
of
pride
.
The
root
of
that
feeling
was
the
moments
when
she
had
stopped
in
sudden
astonishment
in
some
dark
subterranean
corner
and
had
heard
the
words
half
-
stated
in
her
mind
:
This
is
my
railroad
—
as
she
looked
at
a
vault
vibrating
to
the
sound
of
distant
wheels
;
this
is
my
life
—
as
she
felt
the
clot
of
tension
,
which
was
the
stopped
and
the
suspended
within
herself
;
this
is
my
love
—
as
she
thought
of
the
man
who
,
perhaps
,
was
somewhere
in
those
tunnels
.
There
can
be
no
conflict
among
these
three
.
.
.
what
am
I
doubting
?
.
.
.
