Company on the phone."
"The Music Publishing Company?" he repeated incredulously.
"Yes. There's something I want to ask him."
When the voice of Mr. Ayers, courteously eager, inquired of what service he could be to her, she asked, "Can you tell me whether Richard Halley has written a new piano concerto, the Fifth?"
"A fifth concerto, Miss Taggart? Why, no, of course he hasn't."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure, Miss Taggart. He has not written anything for eight years."
"Is he still alive?"
"Why, yes - that is, I can't say for certain, he has dropped out of public life entirely - but I'm sure we would have heard of it if he had died."
"If he wrote anything, would you know about it?"
"Of course. We would be the first to know. We publish all of his work. But he has stopped writing."
"I see. Thank you."
When Owen Kellogg entered her office, she looked at him with satisfaction. She was glad to see that she had been right in her vague recollection of his appearance - his face had the same quality as that of the young brakeman on the train, the face of the kind of man with whom she could deal.
"Sit down, Mr. Kellogg," she said, but he remained standing in front of her desk.
"You had asked me once to let you know if I ever decided to change my employment, Miss Taggart," he said. "So I came to tell you that I am quitting."
She had expected anything but that; it took her a moment before she asked quietly, "Why?"
"For a personal reason."
"Were you dissatisfied here?"
"No."
"Have you received a better offer?"
"No."
"What railroad are you going to?"
"I'm not going to any railroad, Miss Taggart."
"Then what job are you taking?"
"Say anything you wish."
She rose to go. He leaned forward across the desk, reluctant to end the interview and to end it so decisively.
"You realize, of course, that a lengthy procedure will be necessary to put this through," he said; the words sounded almost hopeful. "It isn't as simple as that."
"Oh sure," she said. "I'll send you a detailed report, which Eddie will prepare and which you won't read. Eddie will help you put it through the works. I'm going to Philadelphia tonight to see Rearden. He and I have a lot of work to do." She added, "It's as simple as that, Jim."
She had turned to go, when he spoke again - and what he said seemed bewilderingly irrelevant. "That's all right for you, because you're lucky. Others can't do it."
"Do what?"
"Other people are human. They're sensitive. They can't devote their whole life to metals and engines. You're lucky - you've never had any feelings. You've never felt anything at all."
As she looked at him, her dark gray eyes went slowly from astonishment to stillness, then to a strange expression that resembled a look of weariness, except that it seemed to reflect much more than the endurance of this one moment.
"No, Jim," she said quietly, "I guess I've never felt anything at all." Eddie Willers followed her to her office. Whenever she returned, he felt as if the world became clear, simple, easy to face - and he forgot his moments of shapeless apprehension. He was the only person who found it completely natural that she should be the Operating Vice-President of a great railroad, even though she was a woman. She had told him, when he was ten years old, that she would run the railroad some day. It did not astonish him now, just as it had not astonished him that day in a clearing of the woods.
When they entered her office, when he saw her sit down at the desk and glance at the memos he had left for her - he felt as he did in his car when the motor caught on and the wheels could move forward.
He was about to leave her office, when he remembered a matter he had not reported. "Owen Kellogg of the Terminal Division has asked me for an appointment to see you," he said.
She looked up, astonished. "That's funny. I was going to send for him. Have him come up. I want to see him. . . . Eddie," she added suddenly, "before I start, tell them to get me Ayers of the Ayers Music Publishing
"What issue?"
"The order for Rearden Metal."
He did not answer. He sat studying her silently. Her slender body, about to slump from exhaustion, was held erect by the straight line of the shoulders, and the shoulders were held by a conscious effort of will. Few people liked her face: the face was too cold, the eyes too intense; nothing could ever lend her the charm of a soft focus. The beautiful legs, slanting down from the chair's arm in the center of his vision, annoyed him; they spoiled the rest of his estimate.
She remained silent; he was forced to ask, "Did you decide to order it just like that, on the spur of the moment, over a telephone?"
"I decided it six months ago. I was waiting for Hank Rearden to get ready to go into production."
"Don't call him Hank Rearden. It's vulgar."
"That's what everybody calls him. Don't change the subject."
"Why did you have to telephone him last night?"
"Couldn't reach him sooner."
"Why didn't you wait until you got back to New York and - "
"Because I had seen the Rio Norte Line."
"Well, I need time to consider it, to place the matter before the Board, to consult the best - "
"There is no time."
"You haven't given me a chance to form an opinion."
"I don't give a damn about your opinion. I am not going to argue with you, with your Board or with your professors. You have a choice to make and you're going to make it now. Just say yes or no."
"That's a preposterous, high-handed, arbitrary way of- - "
"Yes or no?"
"That's the trouble with you. You always make it 'Yes' or 'No.' Things are never absolute like that. Nothing is absolute."
"Metal rails are. Whether we get them or not, is."
She waited. He did not answer. "Well?" she asked.
"Are you taking the responsibility for it?"
"I am."
"Go ahead," he said, and added, "but at your own risk. I won't cancel it, but I won't commit myself as to what I'll say to the Board."