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What
he
knew
,
what
he
had
discovered
tonight
,
was
that
his
recaptured
love
of
existence
had
not
been
given
back
to
him
by
the
return
of
his
desire
for
her
—
but
that
the
desire
had
returned
after
he
had
regained
his
world
,
the
love
,
the
value
and
the
sense
of
his
world
—
and
that
the
desire
was
not
an
answer
to
her
body
,
but
a
celebration
of
himself
and
of
his
will
to
live
.
He
did
not
know
it
,
he
did
not
think
of
it
,
he
was
past
the
need
of
words
,
but
in
the
moment
when
he
felt
the
response
of
her
body
to
his
,
he
felt
also
the
unadmitted
knowledge
that
that
which
he
had
called
her
depravity
was
her
highest
virtue
—
this
capacity
of
hers
to
feel
the
joy
of
being
,
as
he
felt
it
.
The
calendar
in
the
sky
beyond
the
window
of
her
office
said
:
September
2
.
Dagny
leaned
wearily
across
her
desk
.
The
first
light
to
snap
on
at
the
approach
of
dusk
was
always
the
ray
that
hit
the
calendar
;
when
the
white
-
glowing
page
appeared
above
the
roofs
,
it
blurred
the
city
,
hastening
the
darkness
.
She
had
looked
at
that
distant
page
every
evening
of
the
months
behind
her
.
Your
days
are
numbered
,
it
had
seemed
to
say
—
as
if
it
were
marking
a
progression
toward
something
it
knew
,
but
she
didn
’
t
.
Once
,
it
had
clocked
her
race
to
build
the
John
Galt
Line
;
now
it
was
clocking
her
race
against
an
unknown
destroyer
.
One
by
one
,
the
men
who
had
built
new
towns
in
Colorado
,
had
departed
into
some
silent
unknown
,
from
which
no
voice
or
person
had
yet
returned
.
The
towns
they
had
left
were
dying
.
Some
of
the
factories
they
built
had
remained
ownerless
and
locked
;
others
had
been
seized
by
the
local
authorities
;
the
machines
in
both
stood
still
.
She
had
felt
as
if
a
dark
map
of
Colorado
were
spread
before
her
like
a
traffic
control
panel
,
with
a
few
lights
scattered
through
its
mountains
.
One
after
another
,
the
lights
had
gone
out
.
One
after
another
,
the
men
had
vanished
.
There
had
been
a
pattern
about
it
,
which
she
felt
,
but
could
not
define
;
she
had
become
able
to
predict
,
almost
with
certainty
,
who
would
go
next
and
when
;
she
was
unable
to
grasp
the
"
why
?
"
Of
the
men
who
had
once
greeted
her
descent
from
the
cab
of
an
engine
on
the
platform
of
Wyatt
Junction
,
only
Ted
Nielsen
was
left
,
still
running
the
plant
of
Nielsen
Motors
.
"
Ted
,
you
won
’
t
be
the
next
one
to
go
?
"
she
had
asked
him
,
on
his
recent
visit
to
New
York
;
she
had
asked
it
,
trying
to
smile
.
He
had
answered
grimly
,
"
I
hope
not
.
"
"
What
do
you
mean
,
you
hope
?
—
aren
’
t
you
sure
?
"
He
had
said
slowly
,
heavily
,
"
Dagny
,
I
’
ve
always
thought
that
I
’
d
rather
die
than
stop
working
.
But
so
did
the
men
who
’
re
gone
.
It
seems
impossible
to
me
that
I
could
ever
want
to
quit
.
But
a
year
ago
,
it
seemed
impossible
that
they
ever
could
.
Those
men
were
my
friends
.
They
knew
what
their
going
would
do
to
us
,
the
survivors
.
They
would
not
have
gone
like
that
,
without
a
word
,
leaving
to
us
the
added
terror
of
the
inexplicable
—
unless
they
had
some
reason
of
supreme
importance
.
A
month
ago
,
Roger
Marsh
,
of
Marsh
Electric
,
told
me
that
he
’
d
have
himself
chained
to
his
desk
,
so
that
he
wouldn
’
t
be
able
to
leave
it
,
no
matter
what
ghastly
temptation
struck
him
.
He
was
furious
with
anger
at
the
men
who
’
d
left
.
He
swore
to
me
that
he
’
d
never
do
it
.
‘
And
if
it
’
s
something
that
I
can
’
t
resist
,
’
he
said
,
‘
I
swear
that
I
’
ll
keep
enough
of
my
mind
to
leave
you
a
letter
and
give
you
some
hint
of
what
it
is
,
so
that
you
won
’
t
have
to
rack
your
brain
in
the
kind
of
dread
we
’
re
both
feeling
now
.
’
That
’
s
what
he
swore
.
Two
weeks
ago
,
he
went
.
He
left
me
no
letter
.
.
.
Dagny
,
I
can
’
t
tell
what
I
’
ll
do
when
I
see
it
—
whatever
it
was
that
they
saw
when
they
went
.
"
