"Stoneridge. The great residential development by Gail Wynand. Have you ever thought of Gail Wynand's career, Peter? From wharf rat to Stoneridge-do you know what a step like that means? Would you care to compute the effort, the energy, the suffering with which Gail Wynand has paid for every step of his way? And here I am, and I hold a project much bigger than Stoneridge in the palm of my hand, without any effort at all." He dropped his hand and added: "If I do hold it. Might be only a figure of speech. Don't take me literally, Peter."

"I hate Wynand," said Keating, looking down at the floor, his voice thick. "I hate him more than any man living."

"Wynand? He's a very naive person. He's naive enough to think that men are motivated primarily by money."

"You aren't, Ellsworth. You're a man of integrity. That's why I believe in you. It's all I've got. If I stopped believing in you, there would be nothing ... anywhere."

"Thank you, Peter. That's sweet of you. Hysterical, but sweet."

"Ellsworth ... you know how I feel about you."

"I have a fair idea."

"You see, that's why I can't understand."

"What?"

He had to say it. He had decided, above all, never to say it, but he had to.

"Ellsworth, why have you dropped me? Why don't you ever write anything about me any more? Why is it always-in your column and everywhere-and on any commission you have a chance to swing-why is it always Gus Webb?"

"But, Peter, why shouldn't it be?"

"But... I..."

"I'm sorry to see that you haven't understood me at all. In all these years, you've learned nothing of my principles. I don't believe in individualism, Peter. I don't believe that any one man is any one thing which everybody else can't be. I believe we're all equal and interchangeable. A position you hold today can be held by anybody and everybody tomorrow. Equalitarian rotation. Haven't I always preached that to you? Why do you suppose I chose you? Why did I put you where you were? To protect the field from men who would become irreplaceable. To leave a chance for the Gus Webbs of this world. Why do you suppose I fought against-for instance-Howard Roark?"

Keating's mind was a bruise. He thought it would be a bruise, because it felt as if something flat and heavy had smashed against it, and it would be black and blue and swollen later; now he felt nothing, except a sweetish numbness. Such chips of thought as he could distinguish told him that the ideas he heard were of a high moral order, the ones he had always accepted, and therefore no evil could come to him from that, no evil could be intended. Toohey's eyes looked straight at him, dark, gentle, benevolent. Maybe later ... he would know later ... But one thing had pierced through and remained caught on some fragment of his brain. He had understood that. The name.

And while his sole hope of grace rested in Toohey, something inexplicable twisted within him, he leaned forward, knowing that this would hurt, wishing it to hurt Toohey, and his lips curled incredibly into a smile, baring his teeth and gums: "You failed there, didn't you, Ellsworth? Look where he is now-Howard Roark."

"Oh dear me, how dull it is to discuss things with minds devoted to the obvious. You are utterly incapable of grasping principles, Peter. You think only in terms of persons. Do you really suppose that I have no mission in life save to worry over the specific fate of your Howard Roark? Mr. Roark is merely one detail out of many. I have dealt with him when it was convenient. I am still dealing with him-though not directly. I do grant you, however, that Mr. Howard Roark is a great temptation to me. At times I feel it would be a shame if I never came up against him personally again. But it might not be necessary at all. When you deal in principles, Peter, it saves you the trouble of individual encounters."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you can follow one of two procedures. You can devote your life to pulling out each single weed as it comes up-and then ten lifetimes won't be enough for the job. Or you can prepare your soil in such a manner-by spreading a certain chemical, let us say-that it will be impossible for weeds to grow. This last is faster. I say 'weed' because it is the conventional symbolism and will not frighten you. The same technique, of course, holds true in the case of any other living plant you may wish to eliminate: buckwheat, potatoes, oranges, orchids or morning glories."

"Ellsworth, I don't know what you're talking about."

"But of course you don't. That's my advantage. I say these things publicly every single day-and n.o.body knows what I'm talking about."

"Have you heard that Howard Roark is doing a house, his own home, for Gail Wynand?"

"My dear Peter, did you think I had to wait to learn it from you?"

"Well, how do you like that?"

"Why should it concern me one way or another?"

"Have you heard that Roark and Wynand are the best of friends? And what friendship, from what I hear! Well? You know what Wynand can do. You know what he can make of Roark. Try and stop Roark now! Try and stop him! Try ..."

He choked on a gulp and kept still. He found himself staring at Toohey's bare ankle between the pyjama trouser and the rich fur of a sheepskin-lined slipper. He had never visualized Toohey's nudity; somehow, he had never thought of Toohey as possessing a physical body. There was something faintly indecent about that ankle: just skin, too bluish-white, stretched over bones that looked too brittle. It made him think of chicken bones left on a plate after dinner, dried out; if one touches them, it takes no effort at all, they just snap. He found himself wishing to reach out, to take that ankle between thumb and forefinger, and just twist the pads of his fingertips.

"Ellsworth, I came here to talk about Cortlandt Homes!" He could not take his eyes off the ankle. He hoped the words would release him.

"Don't shout like that. What's the matter? ... Cortlandt Homes? Well, what did you want to say about it?"

He had to lift his eyes now, in astonishment. Toohey waited innocently.

"I want to design Cortlandt Homes," he said, his voice coming like a paste strained through a cloth. "I want you to give it to me."

"Why should I give it to you?"

There was no answer. If he were to say now: Because you've written that I'm the greatest architect living, the reminder would prove that Toohey believed it no longer. He dared not face such proof, nor Toohey's possible reply. He was staring at two long black hairs on the bluish k.n.o.b of Toohey's ankle; he could see them quite clearly: one straight, the other twisted into a curlicue. After a long time, he answered : "Because I need it very badly, Ellsworth."

"I know you do."

There was nothing further to say. Toohey shifted his ankle, raised his foot and put it flat upon the arm of the couch, spreading his legs comfortably.

"Sit up, Peter. You look like a gargoyle."

Keating did not move.

"What made you a.s.sume that the selection of an architect for Cortlandt Homes was up to me?"

Keating raised his head; it was a stab of relief. He had presumed too much and offended Toohey; that was the reason; that was the only reason.

"Why, I understand ... it's being said ... I was told that you have a great deal of influence on this particular project ... with those people ... and in Washington ... and places ..."

"Strictly in an unofficial capacity. As something of an expert in architectural matters. Nothing else."

"Yes, of course.... That's ... what I meant."

"I can recommend an architect. That's all. I can guarantee nothing. My word is not final."

"That's all I wanted, Ellsworth. A word of recommendation from you..."

"But, Peter, if I recommend someone, I must give a reason. I can't use such influence as I might have, just to push a friend, can I?"

Keating stared at the dressing gown, thinking: powder puffs, why powder puffs? That's what's wrong with me, if he'd only take the thing off.

"Your professional standing is not what it used to be, Peter."

"You said 'to push a friend,' Ellsworth ..." It was a whisper.

"Well, of course I'm your friend. I've always been your friend. You're not doubting that, are you?"

"No ... I can't, Ellsworth...."

"Well, cheer up, then. Look, I'll tell you the truth. We're stuck on that d.a.m.n Cortlandt. There's a nasty little sticker involved. I've tried to get it for Gordon Prescott and Gus Webb-I thought it was more in their line, I didn't think you'd be so interested. But neither of them could make the grade. Do you know the big problem in housing? Economy, Peter. How to design a decent modern unit that could rent for fifteen dollars a month. Ever tried to figure out that one? Well, that's what's expected of the architect who'll do Cortlandt-if they ever find him. Of course, tenant selection helps, they stagger the rents, the families who make twelve hundred a year pay more for the same apartment to help carry the families who make six hundred a year-you know, underdog milked to help somebody underdoggier-but still, the cost of the building and the upkeep must be as low as humanly possible. The boys in Washington don't want another one of those-you heard about it, a little government development where the homes cost ten thousand dollars apiece, while a private builder could have put them up for two thousand. Cortlandt is to be a model project. An example for the whole world. It must be the most brilliant, the most efficient exhibit of planning ingenuity and structural economy ever achieved anywhere. That's what the big boys demand. Gordon and Gus couldn't do it. They tried and were turned down. You'd be surprised to know how many people have tried. Peter, I couldn't sell you to them even at the height of your career. What can I tell them about you? All you stand for is plush, gilt and marble, old Guy Francon, the Cosmo-Slotnick Building, the Frink National Bank, and that little abortion of the Centuries that will never pay for itself. What they want is a millionaire's kitchen for a. share-cropper's income. Think you can do it?"

"I ... I have ideas, Ellsworth. I've watched the field ... I've ... studied new methods.... I could ..."

"If you can, it's yours. If you can't, all my friendship won't help you. And G.o.d knows I'd like to help you. You look like an old hen in the rain. Here's what I'll do for you, Peter: come to my office tomorrow, I'll give you all the dope, take it home and see if you wish to break your head over it. Take a chance, if you care to. Work me out a preliminary scheme. I can't promise anything. But if you come anywhere near it, I'll submit it to the right people and I'll push it for all I'm worth. That's all I can do for you. It's not up to me. It's really up to you."

Keating sat looking at him. Keating's eyes were anxious, eager and hopeless.

"Care to try, Peter?"

"Will you let me try?"

"Of course I'll let you. Why shouldn't I? I'd be delighted if you, of all people, turned out to be the one to turn the trick."

"About the way I look, Ellsworth," he said suddenly, "about the way I look ... it's not because I mind so much that I'm a failure ... it's because I can't understand why I slipped like that ... from the top ... without any reason at all ..."

"Well, Peter, that could be terrifying to contemplate. The inexplicable is always terrifying. But it wouldn't be so frightening if you stopped to ask yourself whether there's ever been any reason why you should have been at the top.... Oh, come, Peter, smile, I'm only kidding. One loses everything when one loses one's sense of humor."

On the following morning Keating came to his office after a visit to Ellsworth Toohey's cubbyhole in the Banner Building. He brought with him a briefcase containing the data on the Cortlandt Homes project. He spread the papers on a large table in his office and locked the door. He asked a draftsman to bring him a sandwich at noon, and he ordered another sandwich at dinner time. "Want me to help, Pete?" asked Neil Dumont. "We could consult and discuss it and ..." Keating shook his head.

He sat at his table all night. After a while he stopped looking at the papers; he sat still, thinking. He was not thinking of the charts and figures spread before him. He had studied them. He had understood what he could not do.

When he noticed that it was daylight, when he heard steps behind his locked door, the movement of men returning to work, and knew that office hours had begun, here and everywhere else in the city-he rose, walked to his desk and reached for the telephone book. He dialed the number.

"This is Peter Keating speaking. I should like to make an appointment to see Mr. Roark."

Dear G.o.d, he thought while waiting, don't let him see me. Make him refuse. Dear G.o.d, make him refuse and I will have the right to hate him to the end of my days. Don't let him see me.

"Will four o'clock tomorrow afternoon be convenient for you, Mr. Keating?" said the calm, gentle voice of the secretary. "Mr. Roark will see you then."

VIII

ROARK KNEW THAT HE MUST NOT SHOW THE SHOCK OF HIS FIRST glance at Peter Keating-and that it was too late: he saw a faint smile on Keating's lips, terrible in its resigned acknowledgment of disintegration.

"Are you only two years younger than I am, Howard?" was the first thing Keating asked, looking at the face of the man he had not seen for six years.

"I don't know, Peter, I think so. I'm thirty-seven."

"I'm thirty-nine-that's all."

He moved to the chair in front of Roark's desk, groping for it with his hand. He was blinded by the band of gla.s.s that made three walls of Roark's office. He stared at the sky and the city. He had no feeling of height here, and the buildings seemed to lie under his toes, not a real city, but miniatures of famous landmarks, incongruously close and small; he felt he could bend and pick any one of them up in his hand. He saw the black dashes which were automobiles and they seemed to crawl, it took them so long to cover a block the size of his finger. He saw the stone and plaster of the city as a substance that had soaked light and was throwing it back, row upon row of flat, vertical planes grilled with dots of windows, each plane a reflector, rose-colored, gold and purple-and jagged streaks of smoke-blue running among them, giving them shape, angles and distance. Light streamed from the buildings into the sky and made of the clear summer blue a humble second thought, a spread of pale water over living fire. My G.o.d, thought Keating, who are the men that made all this?-and then remembered that he had been one of them.

He saw Roark's figure for an instant, straight and gaunt against the angle of two gla.s.s panes behind the desk, then Roark sat down facing him.

Keating thought of men lost in the desert and of men perishing at sea, when, in the presence of the silent eternity of the sky, they have to speak the truth. And now he had to speak the truth, because he was in the presence of the earth's greatest city.

"Howard, is this the terrible thing they meant by turning the other cheek-your letting me come here?"

He did not think of his voice. He did not know that it had dignity.

Roark looked at him silently for a moment; this was a greater change than the swollen face.

"I don't know, Peter. No, if they meant actual forgiveness. Had I been hurt, I'd never forgive it. Yes, if they meant what I'm doing. I don't think a man can hurt another, not in any important way. Neither hurt him nor help him. I have really nothing to forgive you."

"It would be better if you felt you had. It would be less cruel."

"I suppose so."

"You haven't changed, Howard."

"I guess not."

"If this is the punishment I must take-I want you to know that I'm taking it and that I understand. At one time I would have thought I was getting off easy."

"You have changed, Peter."

"I know I have."

"I'm sorry if it has to be punishment."

"I know you are. I believe you. But it's all right. It's only the last of it. I really took it night before last."

"When you decided to come here?"

"Yes."

"Then don't be afraid now. What is it?"

Keating sat straight, calm, not as he had sat facing a man in a dressing gown three days ago, but almost in confident repose. He spoke slowly and without pity: "Howard, I'm a parasite. I've been a parasite all my life. You designed my best projects at Stanton. You designed the first house I ever built. You designed the Cosmo-Slotnick Building. I have fed on you and on all the men like you who lived before we were born. The men who designed the Parthenon, the Gothic cathedrals, the first skysc.r.a.pers. If they hadn't existed, I wouldn't have known how to put stone on stone. In the whole of my life, I haven't added a new doork.n.o.b to what men have done before me. I have taken that which was not mine and given nothing in return. I had nothing to give. This is not an act, Howard, and I'm very conscious of what I'm saying. And I came here to ask you to save me again. If you wish to throw me out, do it now."

Roark shook his head slowly, and moved one hand in silent permission to continue.

"I suppose you know that I'm finished as an architect. Oh, not actually finished, but near enough. Others could go on like this for quite a few years, but I can't, because of what I've been. Or was thought to have been. People don't forgive a man who's slipping. I must live up to what they thought. I can do it only in the same way I've done everything else in my life. I need a prestige I don't deserve for an achievement I didn't accomplish to save a name I haven't earned the right to bear. I've been given a last chance. I know it's my last chance. I know I can't do it. I won't try to bring you a mess and ask you to correct it. I'm asking you to design it and let me put my name on it."

"What's the job?"

"Cortlandt Homes."