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He
picked
up
his
drink
,
took
a
gulp
,
and
chuckled
abruptly
at
a
sudden
recollection
.
"
It
was
funny
,
though
,
"
he
said
,
his
tone
easier
,
livelier
,
the
tone
of
a
confidence
to
a
pal
.
"
You
should
have
seen
Orren
Boyle
yesterday
,
when
the
first
flash
came
through
on
the
radio
from
Wyatt
Junction
!
He
turned
green
—
but
I
mean
,
green
,
the
color
of
a
fish
that
’
s
been
lying
around
too
long
!
Do
you
know
what
he
did
last
night
,
by
way
of
taking
the
bad
news
?
Hired
himself
a
suite
at
the
Valhalla
Hotel
—
and
you
know
what
that
is
—
and
the
last
I
heard
,
he
was
still
there
today
,
drinking
himself
under
the
table
and
the
beds
,
with
a
few
choice
friends
of
his
and
half
the
female
population
of
upper
Amsterdam
Avenue
!
"
"
Who
is
Mr
.
Boyle
?
"
she
asked
,
stupefied
.
"
Oh
,
a
fat
slob
that
’
s
inclined
to
overreach
himself
.
A
smart
guy
who
gets
too
smart
at
times
.
You
should
have
seen
his
face
yesterday
!
I
got
a
kick
out
of
that
.
That
—
and
Dr
.
Floyd
Ferris
.
That
smoothy
didn
’
t
like
it
a
bit
,
oh
not
a
bit
!
—
the
elegant
Dr
.
Ferris
of
the
State
Science
Institute
,
the
servant
of
the
people
,
with
the
patent
-
leather
vocabulary
—
but
he
carried
it
off
pretty
well
,
I
must
say
,
only
you
could
see
him
squirming
in
every
paragraph
—
I
mean
,
that
interview
he
gave
out
this
morning
,
where
he
said
,
‘
The
country
gave
Rearden
that
Metal
,
now
we
expect
him
to
give
the
country
something
in
return
.
’
That
was
pretty
nifty
,
considering
who
’
s
been
riding
on
the
gravy
train
and
.
.
.
well
,
considering
.
That
was
better
than
Bertram
Scudder
—
Mr
.
Scudder
couldn
’
t
think
of
anything
but
‘
No
comment
,
’
when
his
fellow
gentlemen
of
the
press
asked
him
to
voice
his
sentiments
.
‘
No
comment
’
—
from
Bertram
Scudder
who
’
s
never
been
known
to
shut
his
trap
from
the
day
he
was
born
,
about
anything
you
ask
him
or
don
’
t
ask
,
Abyssinian
poetry
or
the
state
of
the
ladies
’
rest
rooms
in
the
textile
industry
!
And
Dr
.
Pritchett
,
the
old
fool
,
is
going
around
saying
that
he
knows
for
certain
that
Rearden
didn
’
t
invent
that
Metal
—
because
he
was
told
,
by
an
unnamed
reliable
source
,
that
Rearden
stole
the
formula
from
a
penniless
inventor
whom
he
murdered
!
"
He
was
chuckling
happily
.
She
was
listening
as
to
a
lecture
on
higher
mathematics
,
grasping
nothing
,
not
even
the
style
of
the
language
,
a
style
which
made
the
mystery
greater
,
because
she
was
certain
that
it
did
not
mean
—
coming
from
him
—
what
it
would
have
meant
anywhere
else
.
He
refilled
his
glass
and
drained
it
,
but
his
gaiety
vanished
abruptly
.
He
slumped
into
an
armchair
,
facing
her
,
looking
up
at
her
from
under
his
bald
forehead
,
his
eyes
blurred
.
"
She
’
s
coming
back
tomorrow
,
"
he
said
,
with
a
sound
like
a
chuckle
devoid
of
amusement
.
"
Who
?
"
