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After
a
while
,
he
realized
that
he
was
thinking
of
his
past
,
as
if
certain
days
of
it
were
spread
before
him
,
demanding
to
be
seen
again
.
He
did
not
want
to
look
at
them
;
he
despised
memories
as
a
pointless
indulgence
.
But
then
he
understood
that
he
thought
of
them
tonight
in
honor
of
that
piece
of
metal
in
his
pocket
.
Then
he
permitted
himself
to
look
.
He
saw
the
day
when
he
stood
on
a
rocky
ledge
and
felt
a
thread
of
sweat
running
from
his
temple
down
his
neck
.
He
was
fourteen
years
old
and
it
was
his
first
day
of
work
in
the
iron
mines
of
Minnesota
.
He
was
trying
to
learn
to
breathe
against
the
scalding
pain
in
his
chest
.
He
stood
,
cursing
himself
,
because
he
had
made
up
his
mind
that
he
would
not
be
tired
.
After
a
while
,
he
went
back
to
his
task
;
he
decided
that
pain
was
not
a
valid
reason
for
stopping
.
He
saw
the
day
when
he
stood
at
the
window
of
his
office
and
looked
at
the
mines
;
he
owned
them
as
of
that
morning
.
He
was
thirty
years
old
.
What
had
gone
on
in
the
years
between
did
not
matter
,
just
as
pain
had
not
mattered
.
He
had
worked
in
mines
,
in
foundries
,
in
the
steel
mills
of
the
north
,
moving
toward
the
purpose
he
had
chosen
.
All
he
remembered
of
those
jobs
was
that
the
men
around
him
had
never
seemed
to
know
what
to
do
,
while
he
had
always
known
.
He
remembered
wondering
why
so
many
iron
mines
were
closing
,
just
as
these
had
been
about
to
close
until
he
took
them
over
.
He
looked
at
the
shelves
of
rock
in
the
distance
.
Workers
were
putting
up
a
new
sign
above
a
gate
at
the
end
of
a
road
:
Rearden
Ore
.
He
saw
an
evening
when
he
sat
slumped
across
his
desk
in
that
office
.
It
was
late
and
his
staff
had
left
;
so
he
could
lie
there
alone
,
unwitnessed
.
He
was
tired
.
It
was
as
if
he
had
run
a
race
against
his
own
body
,
and
all
the
exhaustion
of
years
,
which
he
had
refused
to
acknowledge
,
had
caught
him
at
once
and
flattened
him
against
the
desk
top
.
He
felt
nothing
,
except
the
desire
not
to
move
.
He
did
not
have
the
strength
to
feel
—
not
even
to
suffer
.
He
had
burned
everything
there
was
to
burn
within
him
;
he
had
scattered
so
many
sparks
to
start
so
many
things
—
and
he
wondered
whether
someone
could
give
him
now
the
spark
he
needed
,
now
when
he
felt
unable
ever
to
rise
again
.
He
asked
himself
who
had
started
him
and
kept
him
going
.
Then
he
raised
his
head
.
Slowly
,
with
the
greatest
effort
of
his
life
,
he
made
his
body
rise
until
he
was
able
to
sit
upright
with
only
one
hand
pressed
to
the
desk
and
a
trembling
arm
to
support
him
.
He
never
asked
that
question
again
.
He
saw
the
day
when
he
stood
on
a
hill
and
looked
at
a
grimy
wasteland
of
structures
that
had
been
a
steel
plant
.
It
was
closed
and
given
up
.
He
had
bought
it
the
night
before
.
still
not
good
enough
.
.
.
"
There
was
a
strong
wind
and
a
gray
light
squeezed
from
among
the
clouds
.
In
that
light
,
he
saw
the
brown
-
red
of
rust
,
like
dead
blood
,
on
the
steel
of
the
giant
cranes
—
and
bright
,
green
,
living
weeds
,
like
gorged
cannibals
,
growing
over
piles
of
broken
glass
at
the
foot
of
walls
made
of
empty
frames
.
At
a
gate
in
the
distance
,
he
saw
the
black
silhouettes
of
men
.
They
were
the
unemployed
from
the
rotting
hovels
of
what
had
once
been
a
prosperous
town
.
They
stood
silently
,
looking
at
the
glittering
car
he
had
left
at
the
gate
of
the
mills
;
they
wondered
whether
the
man
on
the
hill
was
the
Hank
Rearden
that
people
were
talking
about
,
and
whether
it
was
true
that
the
mills
were
to
be
reopened
.
"
The
historical
cycle
of
steel
-
making
in
Pennsylvania
is
obviously
running
down
,
"
a
newspaper
had
said
,
"
and
experts
agree
that
Henry
Rearden
’
s
venture
into
steel
is
hopeless
.
You
may
soon
witness
the
sensational
end
of
the
sensational
Henry
Rearden
.
"
That
was
ten
years
ago
.
Tonight
,
the
cold
wind
on
his
face
felt
like
the
wind
of
that
day
.
He
turned
to
look
back
.
The
red
glow
of
the
mills
breathed
in
the
sky
,
a
sight
as
life
-
giving
as
a
sunrise
.
These
had
been
his
stops
,
the
stations
which
an
express
had
reached
and
passed
.
He
remembered
nothing
distinct
of
the
years
between
them
;
the
years
were
blurred
,
like
a
streak
of
speed
.
Whatever
it
was
,
he
thought
,
whatever
the
strain
and
the
agony
,
they
were
worth
it
,
because
they
had
made
him
reach
this
day
—
this
day
when
the
first
heat
of
the
first
order
of
Rearden
Metal
had
been
poured
,
to
become
rails
for
Taggart
Transcontinental
.
