riskyhomo/ayn_rand · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 169
void and of knowing that one has a continent to build.
She felt the whole struggle of her past rising before her and dropping
away, leaving her here, on the height of this moment. She smiled—and the
words in her mind, appraising and sealing the past, were the words of
courage, pride and dedication, which most men had never understood, the words
of a businessman's language: "Price no object."
She did not gasp and she felt no tremor when, in the darkness below, she
saw a small string of lighted dots struggling slowly westward through the
void, with the long, bright dash of a headlight groping to protect the safety
of its way; she felt nothing, even though it was a train and she knew that it
had no destination but the void.
She turned to Galt. He was watching her face, as if he had been following
her thoughts. She saw the reflection of her smile in his. "It's the end," she
said. "It's the beginning," he answered.
Then they lay still, leaning back in their chairs, silently looking at
each other. Then their persons filled each other's awareness, as the sum and
meaning of the future—but the sum included the knowledge of all that had had
to be earned, before the person of another being could come to embody the
value of one's existence.
New York was far behind them, when they heard Danneskjold answer a call
from the radio: "Yes, he's awake. I don't think he'll sleep tonight. . . .
Yes, I think he can." He turned to glance over his shoulder. "John, Dr.
Akston would like to speak to you."
"What? Is he on one of those planes behind us?"
"Certainly."
Galt leaped forward to seize the microphone. "Hello, Dr. Akston,"
he said; the quiet, low tone of his voice was the audible image of a smile
transmitted through space.
"Hello, John." The too-conscious steadiness of Hugh Akston's voice
confessed at what cost <he had waited to learn whether he would ever
pronounce these two words again. "I just wanted to hear your voice . . . just
to know that you're all right."

Galt chuckled and—in the tone of a student proudly presenting a completed
task of homework as proof of a lesson well learned—he answered, "Of course I
am all right, Professor. I had to be. A is A."
The locomotive of the eastbound Comet broke down in the middle of a desert
in Arizona. It stopped abruptly, for no visible reason, like a man who had
not permitted himself to know that he was bearing too much: some overstrained
connection snapped for good.
When Eddie Willers called for the conductor, he waited a long time before
the man came in, and he sensed the answer to his question by the look of
resignation on the man's face.
"The engineer is trying to find out what's wrong, Mr. Willers," he
answered softly, in a tone implying that it was his duty to hope, but that he
had held no hope for years.
"He doesn't know?"
"He's working on it." The conductor waited for a polite half-minute and
turned to go, but stopped to volunteer an explanation, as if some dim,
rational habit told him that any attempt to explain made any unadmitted
terror easier to bear. "Those Diesels of ours aren't fit to be sent out on
the road, Mr. Willers. They weren't worth repairing long ago."
"I know," said Eddie Willers quietly.
The conductor sensed that his explanation was worse than none: it led to
questions that men did not ask these days. He shook his head and went out.
Eddie Willers sat looking at the empty darkness beyond the window.
This was the first eastbound Cornet out of San Francisco in many days: she
was the child of his tortured effort to re-establish transcontinental
service. He could not tell what the past few days had cost him or what he had
done to save the San Francisco terminal from the blind chaos of a civil war
that men were fighting with no concept of their goals; there was no way to
remember the deals he had made on the basis of the range of every shifting
moment. He knew only that he had obtained immunity for the terminal from the
leaders of three different warring factions; that he had found a man for the
post of terminal manager who did not seem to have given up altogether; that
he had started one more Taggart Comet on her eastward run, with the best
Diesel engine and the best crew available; and that he had boarded her for
his return journey to New York, with no knowledge of how long his achievement
would last.
He had never had to work so hard; he had done his job as conscientiously
well as he had always done any assignment; but it was as if he had worked in
a vacuum, as if his energy had found no transmitters and had run into the
sands of . . . of some such desert as the one beyond the window of the Comet.
He shuddered: he felt a moment's kinship with the stalled engine of the
train.
After a while, he summoned the conductor once more. "How is it going?" he
asked.
The conductor shrugged and shook his head.
"Send the fireman to a track phone. Have him tell the Division
Headquarters to send us the best mechanic available."
"Yes, sir."
There was nothing to see beyond the window; turning off the light, Eddie
Willers could distinguish a gray spread dotted by the black spots of cacti,
with no start to it and no end. He wondered how men had ever ventured to
cross it, and at what price, in the days when there were no trains. He jerked
his head away and snapped on the light.
It was only the fact that the Comet was in exile, he thought, mat gave him
this sense of pressing anxiety. She was stalled on an alien rail—on the
borrowed track of the Atlantic Southern that ran through Arizona, the track
they were using without payment. He had to get her out of here, he thought;

he would not feel like this once they returned to their own rail. But the
junction suddenly seemed an insurmountable distance away: on the shore of the
Mississippi, at the Taggart Bridge.
No, he thought, that was not all. He had to admit to himself what images
were nagging him with a sense of uneasiness he could neither grasp nor
dispel; they were too meaningless to define and too inexplicable to dismiss.
One was the image of a way station they had passed without stopping, more
than two hours ago: he had noticed the empty platform and the brightly
lighted windows of the small station building; the lights came from empty

void and of knowing that one has a continent to build.

She felt the whole struggle of her past rising before her and dropping

away, leaving her here, on the height of this moment. She smiled—and the

words in her mind, appraising and sealing the past, were the words of

courage, pride and dedication, which most men had never understood, the words

of a businessman's language: "Price no object."

She did not gasp and she felt no tremor when, in the darkness below, she

saw a small string of lighted dots struggling slowly westward through the

void, with the long, bright dash of a headlight groping to protect the safety

of its way; she felt nothing, even though it was a train and she knew that it

had no destination but the void.

She turned to Galt. He was watching her face, as if he had been following

her thoughts. She saw the reflection of her smile in his. "It's the end," she

said. "It's the beginning," he answered.

Then they lay still, leaning back in their chairs, silently looking at

each other. Then their persons filled each other's awareness, as the sum and

meaning of the future—but the sum included the knowledge of all that had had

to be earned, before the person of another being could come to embody the

value of one's existence.

New York was far behind them, when they heard Danneskjold answer a call

from the radio: "Yes, he's awake. I don't think he'll sleep tonight. . . .

Yes, I think he can." He turned to glance over his shoulder. "John, Dr.

Akston would like to speak to you."

"What? Is he on one of those planes behind us?"

"Certainly."

Galt leaped forward to seize the microphone. "Hello, Dr. Akston,"

he said; the quiet, low tone of his voice was the audible image of a smile

transmitted through space.

"Hello, John." The too-conscious steadiness of Hugh Akston's voice

confessed at what cost <he had waited to learn whether he would ever

pronounce these two words again. "I just wanted to hear your voice . . . just

to know that you're all right."

Galt chuckled and—in the tone of a student proudly presenting a completed

task of homework as proof of a lesson well learned—he answered, "Of course I

am all right, Professor. I had to be. A is A."

The locomotive of the eastbound Comet broke down in the middle of a desert

in Arizona. It stopped abruptly, for no visible reason, like a man who had

not permitted himself to know that he was bearing too much: some overstrained

connection snapped for good.

When Eddie Willers called for the conductor, he waited a long time before

the man came in, and he sensed the answer to his question by the look of

resignation on the man's face.

"The engineer is trying to find out what's wrong, Mr. Willers," he

answered softly, in a tone implying that it was his duty to hope, but that he

had held no hope for years.

"He doesn't know?"

"He's working on it." The conductor waited for a polite half-minute and

turned to go, but stopped to volunteer an explanation, as if some dim,

rational habit told him that any attempt to explain made any unadmitted

terror easier to bear. "Those Diesels of ours aren't fit to be sent out on

the road, Mr. Willers. They weren't worth repairing long ago."

"I know," said Eddie Willers quietly.

The conductor sensed that his explanation was worse than none: it led to

questions that men did not ask these days. He shook his head and went out.

Eddie Willers sat looking at the empty darkness beyond the window.

This was the first eastbound Cornet out of San Francisco in many days: she

was the child of his tortured effort to re-establish transcontinental

service. He could not tell what the past few days had cost him or what he had

done to save the San Francisco terminal from the blind chaos of a civil war

that men were fighting with no concept of their goals; there was no way to

remember the deals he had made on the basis of the range of every shifting

moment. He knew only that he had obtained immunity for the terminal from the

leaders of three different warring factions; that he had found a man for the

post of terminal manager who did not seem to have given up altogether; that

he had started one more Taggart Comet on her eastward run, with the best

Diesel engine and the best crew available; and that he had boarded her for

his return journey to New York, with no knowledge of how long his achievement

would last.

He had never had to work so hard; he had done his job as conscientiously

well as he had always done any assignment; but it was as if he had worked in

a vacuum, as if his energy had found no transmitters and had run into the

sands of . . . of some such desert as the one beyond the window of the Comet.

He shuddered: he felt a moment's kinship with the stalled engine of the

train.

After a while, he summoned the conductor once more. "How is it going?" he

asked.

The conductor shrugged and shook his head.

"Send the fireman to a track phone. Have him tell the Division

Headquarters to send us the best mechanic available."

"Yes, sir."

There was nothing to see beyond the window; turning off the light, Eddie

Willers could distinguish a gray spread dotted by the black spots of cacti,

with no start to it and no end. He wondered how men had ever ventured to

cross it, and at what price, in the days when there were no trains. He jerked

his head away and snapped on the light.

It was only the fact that the Comet was in exile, he thought, mat gave him

this sense of pressing anxiety. She was stalled on an alien rail—on the

borrowed track of the Atlantic Southern that ran through Arizona, the track

they were using without payment. He had to get her out of here, he thought;

he would not feel like this once they returned to their own rail. But the

junction suddenly seemed an insurmountable distance away: on the shore of the

Mississippi, at the Taggart Bridge.

No, he thought, that was not all. He had to admit to himself what images

were nagging him with a sense of uneasiness he could neither grasp nor

dispel; they were too meaningless to define and too inexplicable to dismiss.

One was the image of a way station they had passed without stopping, more

than two hours ago: he had noticed the empty platform and the brightly

lighted windows of the small station building; the lights came from empty