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Hank
Rearden
leaned
back
,
closing
his
eyes
.
He
felt
the
column
trembling
with
the
rumble
of
the
crane
.
The
job
was
done
,
he
thought
.
A
worker
saw
him
and
grinned
in
understanding
,
like
a
fellow
accomplice
in
a
great
celebration
,
who
knew
why
that
tall
,
blond
figure
had
had
to
be
present
here
tonight
.
Rearden
smiled
in
answer
:
it
was
the
only
salute
he
had
received
.
Then
he
started
back
for
his
office
,
once
again
a
figure
with
an
expressionless
face
.
It
was
late
when
Hank
Rearden
left
his
office
that
night
to
walk
from
his
mills
to
his
house
.
It
was
a
walk
of
some
miles
through
empty
country
,
but
he
had
felt
like
doing
it
,
without
conscious
reason
.
He
walked
,
keeping
one
hand
in
his
pocket
,
his
fingers
closed
about
a
bracelet
.
It
was
made
of
Rearden
Metal
,
in
the
shape
of
a
chain
.
His
fingers
moved
,
feeling
its
texture
once
in
a
while
.
It
had
taken
ten
years
to
make
that
bracelet
.
Ten
years
,
he
thought
,
is
a
long
time
.
The
road
was
dark
,
edged
with
trees
.
Looking
up
,
he
could
see
a
few
leaves
against
the
stars
;
the
leaves
were
twisted
and
dry
,
ready
to
fall
.
There
were
distant
lights
in
the
windows
of
houses
scattered
through
the
countryside
;
but
the
lights
made
the
road
seem
lonelier
.
He
never
felt
loneliness
except
when
he
was
happy
.
He
turned
,
once
in
a
while
,
to
look
back
at
the
red
glow
of
the
sky
over
the
mills
.
He
did
not
think
of
the
ten
years
.
What
remained
of
them
tonight
was
only
a
feeling
which
he
could
not
name
,
except
that
it
was
quiet
and
solemn
.
The
feeling
was
a
sum
,
and
he
did
not
have
to
count
again
the
parts
that
had
gone
to
make
it
.
But
the
parts
,
unrecalled
,
were
there
,
within
the
feeling
.
They
were
the
nights
spent
at
scorching
ovens
in
the
research
laboratory
of
the
mills
-
—
the
nights
spent
in
the
workshop
of
his
home
,
over
sheets
of
paper
which
he
filled
with
formulas
,
then
tore
up
in
angry
failure
—
the
days
when
the
young
scientists
of
the
small
staff
he
had
chosen
to
assist
him
waited
for
instructions
like
soldiers
ready
for
a
hopeless
battle
,
having
exhausted
their
ingenuity
,
still
willing
,
but
silent
,
with
the
unspoken
sentence
hanging
in
the
air
:
"
Mr
.
Rearden
,
it
can
’
t
be
done
—
"
-
the
meals
,
interrupted
and
abandoned
at
the
sudden
flash
of
a
new
thought
,
a
thought
to
be
pursued
at
once
,
to
be
tried
,
to
be
tested
,
to
be
worked
on
for
months
,
and
to
be
discarded
as
another
failure
—
the
moments
snatched
from
conferences
,
from
contracts
,
from
the
duties
of
running
the
best
steel
mills
in
the
country
,
snatched
almost
guiltily
,
as
for
a
secret
love
—
the
one
thought
held
immovably
across
a
span
of
ten
years
,
under
everything
he
did
and
everything
he
saw
,
the
thought
held
in
his
mind
when
he
looked
at
the
buildings
of
a
city
,
at
the
track
of
a
railroad
,
at
the
light
in
the
windows
of
a
distant
farmhouse
,
at
the
knife
in
the
hands
of
a
beautiful
woman
cutting
a
piece
of
fruit
at
a
banquet
,
the
thought
of
a
metal
alloy
that
would
do
more
than
steel
had
ever
done
,
a
metal
that
would
be
to
steel
what
steel
had
been
to
iron
—
the
acts
of
self
-
racking
when
he
discarded
a
hope
or
a
sample
,
not
permitting
himself
to
know
that
he
was
tired
,
not
giving
himself
time
to
feel
,
driving
himself
through
the
wringing
torture
of
:
"
not
good
enough
.
.
.
and
going
on
with
no
motor
save
the
conviction
that
it
could
be
done
—
then
the
day
when
it
was
done
and
its
result
was
called
Rearden
Metal
—
these
were
the
things
that
had
come
to
white
heat
,
had
melted
and
fused
within
him
,
and
their
alloy
was
a
strange
,
quiet
feeling
that
made
him
smile
at
the
countryside
in
the
darkness
and
wonder
why
happiness
could
hurt
.
