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She
had
come
to
Colorado
with
Hank
Rearden
,
to
buy
whatever
machinery
could
still
be
found
in
the
closed
factories
.
It
had
been
like
a
hurried
search
through
the
sinking
hulk
of
a
great
ship
before
it
was
to
vanish
out
of
reach
.
They
could
have
given
the
task
to
employees
,
but
they
had
come
,
both
prompted
by
the
same
unconfessed
motive
:
they
could
not
resist
the
desire
to
attend
the
run
of
the
last
train
,
as
one
cannot
resist
the
desire
to
give
a
last
salute
by
attending
a
funeral
,
even
while
knowing
that
it
is
only
an
act
of
self
-
torture
.
They
had
been
buying
machinery
from
doubtful
owners
in
sales
of
dubious
legality
,
since
nobody
could
tell
who
had
the
right
to
dispose
of
the
great
,
dead
properties
,
and
nobody
would
come
to
challenge
the
transactions
.
They
had
bought
everything
that
could
be
moved
from
the
gutted
plant
of
Nielsen
Motors
.
Ted
Nielsen
had
quit
and
vanished
,
a
week
after
the
announcement
that
the
Line
was
to
be
closed
.
She
had
felt
like
a
scavenger
,
but
the
activity
of
the
hunt
had
made
her
able
to
bear
these
past
few
days
.
When
she
had
found
that
three
empty
hours
remained
before
the
departure
of
the
last
train
,
she
had
gone
to
walk
through
the
countryside
,
to
escape
the
stillness
of
the
town
.
She
had
walked
at
random
through
twisting
mountain
trails
,
alone
among
rocks
and
snow
,
trying
to
substitute
motion
for
thought
,
knowing
that
she
had
to
get
through
this
day
without
thinking
of
the
summer
when
she
had
ridden
the
engine
of
the
first
train
.
But
she
found
herself
walking
back
along
the
roadbed
of
the
John
Galt
Line
—
and
she
knew
that
she
had
intended
it
,
that
she
had
gone
out
for
that
purpose
.
It
was
a
spur
track
which
had
already
been
dismembered
.
There
were
no
signal
lights
,
no
switches
,
no
telephone
wires
,
nothing
but
a
long
band
of
wooden
strips
left
on
the
ground
—
a
chain
of
ties
without
rail
,
like
the
remnant
of
a
spine
—
and
,
as
its
lonely
guardian
,
at
an
abandoned
grade
crossing
,
a
pole
with
slanted
arms
saying
:
"
Stop
.
Look
.
Listen
.
"
An
early
darkness
mixed
with
fog
was
slipping
down
to
fill
the
valleys
,
when
she
came
upon
the
factory
.
There
was
an
inscription
high
on
the
lustrous
tile
of
its
front
walclass
=
"
underline
"
"
Roger
Marsh
.
Electrical
Appliances
.
"
The
man
who
had
wanted
to
chain
himself
to
his
desk
in
order
not
to
leave
this
,
she
thought
.
The
building
stood
intact
,
like
a
corpse
in
that
instant
when
its
eyes
have
just
closed
and
one
still
waits
to
see
them
open
again
.
She
felt
that
the
lights
would
flare
up
at
any
moment
behind
the
great
sheets
of
windows
,
under
the
long
,
flat
roofs
.
Then
she
saw
one
broken
pane
,
pierced
by
a
stone
for
some
young
moron
’
s
enjoyment
—
and
she
saw
the
tall
,
dry
stem
of
a
single
weed
rising
from
the
steps
of
the
main
entrance
.
Hit
by
a
sudden
,
blinding
hatred
,
in
rebellion
against
the
weed
’
s
impertinence
,
knowing
of
what
enemy
this
was
the
scout
,
she
ran
forward
,
she
fell
on
her
knees
and
jerked
the
weed
up
by
its
roots
.
Then
,
kneeling
on
the
steps
of
a
closed
factory
,
looking
at
the
vast
silence
of
mountains
,
brush
and
dusk
,
she
thought
:
What
do
you
think
you
’
re
doing
?
It
was
almost
dark
when
she
reached
the
end
of
the
ties
that
led
her
back
to
the
town
of
Marshville
.
Marshville
had
been
the
end
of
the
Line
for
months
past
;
service
to
Wyatt
Junction
had
been
discontinued
long
ago
;
Dr
.
Ferris
’
Reclamation
Project
had
been
abandoned
this
winter
.
The
street
lights
were
on
,
and
they
hung
in
mid
-
air
at
the
intersections
,
in
a
long
,
diminishing
line
of
yellow
globes
over
the
empty
streets
of
Marshville
.
All
the
better
homes
were
closed
—
the
neat
,
sturdy
houses
of
modest
cost
,
well
built
and
well
kept
;
there
were
faded
"
For
Sale
"
signs
on
their
lawns
.
