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Closing
his
eyes
,
he
permitted
himself
to
experience
for
a
moment
the
immense
relief
he
would
feel
if
he
,
too
,
were
to
walk
off
,
abandoning
everything
.
Under
the
shock
of
his
loss
,
he
felt
a
thin
thread
of
envy
.
Why
didn
’
t
they
come
for
me
,
too
,
whoever
they
are
,
and
give
me
that
irresistible
reason
which
would
make
me
go
?
But
in
the
next
moment
,
his
shudder
of
anger
told
him
that
he
would
murder
the
man
who
’
d
attempt
to
approach
him
,
he
would
murder
before
he
could
hear
the
words
of
the
secret
that
would
take
him
away
from
his
mills
.
It
was
late
,
his
staff
had
gone
,
but
he
dreaded
the
road
to
his
house
and
the
emptiness
of
the
evening
ahead
.
He
felt
as
if
the
enemy
who
had
wiped
out
Ken
Danagger
,
were
waiting
for
him
in
the
darkness
beyond
the
glow
of
the
mills
.
He
was
not
invulnerable
any
longer
,
but
whatever
it
was
,
he
thought
,
wherever
it
came
from
,
he
was
safe
from
it
here
,
as
in
a
circle
of
fires
drawn
about
him
to
ward
off
evil
.
He
looked
at
the
glittering
white
splashes
on
the
dark
windows
of
a
structure
in
the
distance
;
they
were
like
motionless
ripples
of
sunlight
on
water
.
It
was
the
reflection
of
the
neon
sign
that
burned
on
the
roof
of
the
building
above
his
head
,
saying
:
Rearden
Steel
.
He
thought
of
the
night
when
he
had
wished
to
light
a
sign
above
his
past
,
saying
:
Rearden
Life
.
Why
had
he
wished
it
?
For
whose
eyes
to
see
?
He
thought
—
in
bitter
astonishment
and
for
the
first
time
—
that
the
joyous
pride
he
had
once
felt
,
had
come
from
his
respect
for
men
,
for
the
value
of
their
admiration
and
their
judgment
.
He
did
not
feel
it
any
longer
.
There
were
no
men
,
he
thought
,
to
whose
sight
he
could
wish
to
offer
that
sign
.
He
turned
brusquely
away
from
the
window
.
He
seized
his
overcoat
with
the
harsh
sweep
of
a
gesture
intended
to
jolt
him
back
into
the
discipline
of
action
.
He
slammed
the
two
folds
of
the
overcoat
about
his
body
,
he
jerked
the
belt
tight
,
then
hastened
to
turn
off
the
lights
with
rapid
snaps
of
his
hand
on
his
way
out
of
the
office
.
He
threw
the
door
open
—
and
stopped
.
A
single
lamp
was
burning
in
a
corner
of
the
dimmed
anteroom
.
The
man
who
sat
on
the
edge
of
a
desk
,
in
a
pose
of
casual
,
patient
waiting
,
was
Francisco
d
’
Anconia
.
Rearden
stood
still
and
caught
a
brief
instant
when
Francisco
,
not
moving
,
looked
at
him
with
the
hint
of
an
amused
smile
that
was
like
a
wink
between
conspirators
at
a
secret
they
both
understood
,
but
would
not
acknowledge
.
It
was
only
an
instant
,
almost
too
brief
to
grasp
,
because
it
seemed
to
him
that
Francisco
rose
at
once
at
his
entrance
,
with
a
movement
of
courteous
deference
.
The
movement
suggested
a
strict
formality
,
the
denial
of
any
attempt
at
presumption
—
but
it
stressed
the
intimacy
of
the
fact
that
he
uttered
no
word
of
greeting
or
explanation
.
Rearden
asked
,
his
voice
hard
,
"
What
are
you
doing
here
?
"
"
I
thought
that
you
would
want
to
see
me
tonight
,
Mr
.
Rearden
.
"
