riskyhomo/ayn_rand · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 169
rooms; he had seen no single human figure, neither in the building nor on the
tracks outside. The other image was of the next way station they had passed:
its platform was jammed with an agitated mob. Now they were far beyond the
reach of the light or sound of any station.
He had to get the Comet out of here, he thought. He wondered why he felt
it with such urgency and why it had seemed so crucially important to reestablish the Comet's run. A mere handful of passengers was rattling in her
empty cars; men had no place to go and no goals to reach. It was not for
their sake that he had struggled; he could not say for whose. Two phrases
stood as the answer in his mind, driving him with the vagueness of a prayer
and the scalding force of an absolute.
One was: From Ocean to Ocean, forever—the other was: Don't let it go! . .
.
The conductor returned an hour later, with the fireman, whose face looked
oddly grim.
"Mr. Willers," said the fireman slowly, "Division Headquarters does not
answer."
Eddie Willers sat up, his mind refusing to believe it, yet knowing
suddenly that for some inexplicable reason this was what he had expected.
"It's impossible!" he said, his voice low; the fireman was looking at him,
not moving. "The track phone must have been out of order."
"No, Mr. Willers. It was not out of order. The line was alive all right.
The Division Headquarters wasn't. I mean, there was no one there to
answer, or else no one who cared to."
"But you know that that's impossible!"
The fireman shrugged; men did not consider any disaster impossible these
days.
Eddie Willers leaped to his feet. "Go down the length of the train,"
he ordered the conductor. "Knock on all the doors—the occupied ones, that
is—and see whether there's an electrical engineer aboard."
"Yes, sir."
Eddie knew that they felt, as he felt it, that they would find no such
man; not among the lethargic, extinguished faces of the passengers they had
seen. "Come on," he ordered, turning to the fireman.
They climbed together aboard the locomotive. The gray-haired engineer was
sitting in his chair, staring out at the cacti. The engine's headlight had
stayed on and it stretched out into the night, motionless and straight,
reaching nothing but the dissolving blur of crossties.
"Let's try to find what's wrong," said Eddie, removing his. coat, his
voice half-order, half-plea. "Let's try some more."
"Yes, sir," said the engineer, without resentment or hope.
The engineer had exhausted his meager store of knowledge; he had checked
every source of trouble he could think of. He went crawling over and under
the machinery, unscrewing its parts and screwing them back again, taking out
pieces and replacing them, dismembering the motors at random, like a child
taking a clock apart, but without the child's conviction that knowledge is
possible.

The fireman kept leaning out of the cab's window, glancing at the black
stillness and shivering, as if from the night air that was growing colder.
"Don't worry," said Eddie Willers, assuming a tone of confidence.
"We've got to do our best, but if we fail, they'll send us help sooner or
later. They don't abandon trains in the middle of nowhere."
'They didn't used to," said the fireman.
Once in a while, the engineer raised his grease-smeared face to look at
the grease-smeared face and shirt of Eddie Willers. "What's the use, Mr.
Willers?" he asked.
"We can't let it go!" Eddie answered fiercely; he knew dimly that what he
meant was more than the Comet . . . and more than the railroad.
Moving from the cab through the three motor units and back to the cab
again, his hands bleeding, his shirt sticking to his back, Eddie Willers was
struggling to remember everything he had ever known about engines, anything
he had learned in college, and earlier: anything he had picked up in those
days when the station agents at Rockdale Station used to chase him off the
rungs of their lumbering switch engines.
The pieces connected to nothing; his brain seemed jammed and tight; he
knew that motors were not his profession, he knew that he did not know and
that it was now a matter of life or death for him to discover the knowledge.
He was looking at the cylinders, the blades, the wires, the control panels
still winking with lights. He was struggling not to allow into his mind the
thought that was pressing against its periphery: What were the chances and
how long would it take—according to the mathematical theory of probability—
for primitive men, working by rule-of-thumb, to hit the right combination of
parts and re-create the motor of this engine?
"What's the use, Mr. Willers?" moaned the engineer.
"We can't let it go!" he cried.
He did not know how many hours had passed when he heard the fireman shout
suddenly, "Mr. Willers! Look!"
The fireman was leaning out the window, pointing into the darkness behind
them.
Eddie Willers looked. An odd little light was swinging jerkily far in the
distance; it seemed to be advancing at an imperceptible rate; it did not look
like any sort of light he could identify.
After a while, it seemed to him that he distinguished some large black
shapes advancing slowly; they were moving in a line parallel with the track;
the spot of light hung low over the ground, swinging; he strained his ears,
but heard nothing.
Then he caught a feeble, muffled beat that sounded like the hoofs of
horses. The two men beside him were watching the black shapes with a look of
growing terror, as if some supernatural apparition were advancing upon them
out of the desert night. In the moment when they chuckled suddenly, joyously,
recognizing the shapes, it was Eddie's face that froze into a look of terror
at the sight of a ghost more frightening than any they could have expected:
it was a train of covered wagons.
The swinging lantern jerked to a stop by the side of the engine. "Hey,
bud, can I give you a lift?" called a man who seemed to be the leader; he was
chuckling. "Stuck, aren't you?"
The passengers of the Comet were peering out of the windows; some were
descending the steps and approaching. Women's faces peeked from the wagons,
from among the piles of household goods; a baby wailed somewhere at the rear
of the caravan.

rooms; he had seen no single human figure, neither in the building nor on the

tracks outside. The other image was of the next way station they had passed:

its platform was jammed with an agitated mob. Now they were far beyond the

reach of the light or sound of any station.

He had to get the Comet out of here, he thought. He wondered why he felt

it with such urgency and why it had seemed so crucially important to reestablish the Comet's run. A mere handful of passengers was rattling in her

empty cars; men had no place to go and no goals to reach. It was not for

their sake that he had struggled; he could not say for whose. Two phrases

stood as the answer in his mind, driving him with the vagueness of a prayer

and the scalding force of an absolute.

One was: From Ocean to Ocean, forever—the other was: Don't let it go! . .

.

The conductor returned an hour later, with the fireman, whose face looked

oddly grim.

"Mr. Willers," said the fireman slowly, "Division Headquarters does not

answer."

Eddie Willers sat up, his mind refusing to believe it, yet knowing

suddenly that for some inexplicable reason this was what he had expected.

"It's impossible!" he said, his voice low; the fireman was looking at him,

not moving. "The track phone must have been out of order."

"No, Mr. Willers. It was not out of order. The line was alive all right.

The Division Headquarters wasn't. I mean, there was no one there to

answer, or else no one who cared to."

"But you know that that's impossible!"

The fireman shrugged; men did not consider any disaster impossible these

days.

Eddie Willers leaped to his feet. "Go down the length of the train,"

he ordered the conductor. "Knock on all the doors—the occupied ones, that

is—and see whether there's an electrical engineer aboard."

"Yes, sir."

Eddie knew that they felt, as he felt it, that they would find no such

man; not among the lethargic, extinguished faces of the passengers they had

seen. "Come on," he ordered, turning to the fireman.

They climbed together aboard the locomotive. The gray-haired engineer was

sitting in his chair, staring out at the cacti. The engine's headlight had

stayed on and it stretched out into the night, motionless and straight,

reaching nothing but the dissolving blur of crossties.

"Let's try to find what's wrong," said Eddie, removing his. coat, his

voice half-order, half-plea. "Let's try some more."

"Yes, sir," said the engineer, without resentment or hope.

The engineer had exhausted his meager store of knowledge; he had checked

every source of trouble he could think of. He went crawling over and under

the machinery, unscrewing its parts and screwing them back again, taking out

pieces and replacing them, dismembering the motors at random, like a child

taking a clock apart, but without the child's conviction that knowledge is

possible.

The fireman kept leaning out of the cab's window, glancing at the black

stillness and shivering, as if from the night air that was growing colder.

"Don't worry," said Eddie Willers, assuming a tone of confidence.

"We've got to do our best, but if we fail, they'll send us help sooner or

later. They don't abandon trains in the middle of nowhere."

'They didn't used to," said the fireman.

Once in a while, the engineer raised his grease-smeared face to look at

the grease-smeared face and shirt of Eddie Willers. "What's the use, Mr.

Willers?" he asked.

"We can't let it go!" Eddie answered fiercely; he knew dimly that what he

meant was more than the Comet . . . and more than the railroad.

Moving from the cab through the three motor units and back to the cab

again, his hands bleeding, his shirt sticking to his back, Eddie Willers was

struggling to remember everything he had ever known about engines, anything

he had learned in college, and earlier: anything he had picked up in those

days when the station agents at Rockdale Station used to chase him off the

rungs of their lumbering switch engines.

The pieces connected to nothing; his brain seemed jammed and tight; he

knew that motors were not his profession, he knew that he did not know and

that it was now a matter of life or death for him to discover the knowledge.

He was looking at the cylinders, the blades, the wires, the control panels

still winking with lights. He was struggling not to allow into his mind the

thought that was pressing against its periphery: What were the chances and

how long would it take—according to the mathematical theory of probability—

for primitive men, working by rule-of-thumb, to hit the right combination of

parts and re-create the motor of this engine?

"What's the use, Mr. Willers?" moaned the engineer.

"We can't let it go!" he cried.

He did not know how many hours had passed when he heard the fireman shout

suddenly, "Mr. Willers! Look!"

The fireman was leaning out the window, pointing into the darkness behind

them.

Eddie Willers looked. An odd little light was swinging jerkily far in the

distance; it seemed to be advancing at an imperceptible rate; it did not look

like any sort of light he could identify.

After a while, it seemed to him that he distinguished some large black

shapes advancing slowly; they were moving in a line parallel with the track;

the spot of light hung low over the ground, swinging; he strained his ears,

but heard nothing.

Then he caught a feeble, muffled beat that sounded like the hoofs of

horses. The two men beside him were watching the black shapes with a look of

growing terror, as if some supernatural apparition were advancing upon them

out of the desert night. In the moment when they chuckled suddenly, joyously,

recognizing the shapes, it was Eddie's face that froze into a look of terror

at the sight of a ghost more frightening than any they could have expected:

it was a train of covered wagons.

The swinging lantern jerked to a stop by the side of the engine. "Hey,

bud, can I give you a lift?" called a man who seemed to be the leader; he was

chuckling. "Stuck, aren't you?"

The passengers of the Comet were peering out of the windows; some were

descending the steps and approaching. Women's faces peeked from the wagons,

from among the piles of household goods; a baby wailed somewhere at the rear

of the caravan.