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keep out of his mind the actual form which the issue of his battle could take;

he had to forget the fact of Roark’s physical existence; because the thought of

Roark’s person brought the thought of the county jail.

He walked the long distance to the Enright House; walking made the distance

longer and safer; a ride in a cab would pull Roark too close to the Banner

Building. He kept his glance slanted toward a point six feet ahead of him on the

sidewalk; he did not want to look at the city.

"Good evening, Gail," Roark said calmly when he came in.

"I don’t know what’s a more conspicuous form of bad discipline," said Wynand,

throwing his hat down on a table by the door, "to blurt things right out or to

ignore them blatantly. I look like hell. Say it."

"You do look like hell. Sit down, rest and don’t talk. Then I’ll run you a hot

bath--no, you don’t look that dirty, but it will be good for you for a change.

Then we’ll talk."

Wynand shook his head and remained standing at the door.

"Howard, the Banner is not helping you. It’s ruining you."

It had taken him eight weeks to prepare himself to say that.

"Of course," said Roark. "What of it?"

Wynand would not advance into the room.

"Gail, it doesn’t matter, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not counting on public

opinion, one way or the other."

"You want me to give in?"

"I want you to hold out if it takes everything you own."

He saw that Wynand understood, that it was the thing Wynand had tried not to

face, and that Wynand wanted him to speak.

"I don’t expect you to save me. I think I have a chance to win. The strike won’t

make it better or worse. Don’t worry about me. And don’t give in. If you stick

to the end--you won’t need me any longer."

He saw the look of anger, protest--and agreement. He added:

"You know what I’m saying. We’ll be better friends than ever--and you’ll come to

visit me in jail, if necessary. Don’t wince, and don’t make me say too much. Not

now. I’m glad of this strike. I knew that something like that had to happen,

when I saw you for the first time. You knew it long before that."

"Two months ago, I promised you...the one promise I wanted to keep..."

"You’re keeping it."

"Don’t you really want to despise me? I wish you’d say it now. I came here to

hear it."

"All right. Listen. You have been the one encounter in my life that can never be

repeated. There was Henry Cameron who died for my own cause. And you’re the

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publisher of filthy tabloids. But I couldn’t say this to him, and I’m saying it

to you. There’s Steve Mallory who’s never compromised with his soul. And you’ve

done nothing but sell yours in every known way. But I couldn’t say this to him

and I’m saying it to you. Is that what you’ve always wanted to hear from me? But

don’t give in."

He turned away, and added: "That’s all. We won’t talk about your damn strike

again. Sit down, I’ll get you a drink. Rest, get yourself out of looking like

hell."

Wynand returned to the Banner late at night. He took a cab. It did not matter.

He did not notice the distance.

Dominique said, "You’ve seen Roark."

"Yes. How do you know?"

"Here’s the Sunday makeup. It’s fairly lousy, but it’ll have to do. I sent

Manning home for a few hours--he was going to collapse. Jackson quit, but we can

do without him. Alvah’s column was a mess--he can’t even keep his grammar

straight any more--I rewrote it, but don’t tell him, tell him you did."

"Go to sleep. I’ll take Manning’s place. I’m good for hours."

They went on, and the days passed, and in the mailing room the piles of returns

grew, running over into the corridor, white stacks of paper like marble slabs.

Fewer copies of the Banner were run off with every edition, but the stacks kept

growing. The days passed, days of heroic effort to put out a newspaper that came

back unbought and unread.

16.

IN THE glass-smooth mahogany of the long table reserved for the board of

directors there was a monogram in colored wood--G W--reproduced from his

signature. It had always annoyed the directors. They had no time to notice it

now. But an occasional glance fell upon it--and then it was a glance of

pleasure.

The directors sat around the table. It was the first meeting in the board’s

history that had not been summoned by Wynand. But the meeting had convened and

Wynand had come. The strike was in its second month.

Wynand stood by his chair at the head of the table. He looked like a drawing

from a men’s magazine, fastidiously groomed, a white handkerchief in the breast

pocket of his dark suit. The directors caught themselves in peculiar thoughts:

some thought of British tailors, others--of the House of Lords--of the Tower of

London--of the executed English King--or was it a Chancellor?--who had died so

well.

They did not want to look at the man before them. They leaned upon visions of

the pickets outside--of the perfumed, manicured women who shrieked their support

of Ellsworth Toohey in drawing-room discussions--of the broad, flat face of a

girl who paced Fifth Avenue with a placard "We Don’t Read Wynand"--for support

and courage to say what they were saying.

Wynand thought of a crumbling wall on the edge of the Hudson. He heard steps

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approaching blocks away. Only this time there were no wires in his hand to hold

his muscles ready.

"It’s gone beyond all sense. Is this a business organization or a charitable

society for the defense of personal friends?"

"Three hundred thousand dollars last week....Never mind how I know it, Gail, no

secret about it, your banker told me. All right, it’s your money, but if you

expect to get that back out of the sheet, let me tell you we’re wise to your

smart tricks. You’re not going to saddle the corporation with that one, not a

penny of it, you don’t get away with it this time, it’s too late, Gail, the

day’s past for your bright stunts."

Wynand looked at the fleshy lips of the man making sounds, and thought: You’ve

run the Banner, from the beginning, you didn’t know it, but I know, it was you,

it was your paper, there’s nothing to save now.

"Yes, Slottern and his bunch are willing to come back at once, all they ask is

that we accept the Union’s demands, and they’ll pick up the balance of their

contracts, on the old terms, even without waiting for you to rebuild

circulation--which will be some job, friend, let me tell you--and I think that’s

pretty white of them. I spoke to Homer yesterday and he gave me his word--care

to hear me name the sums involved, Wynand, or do you know it without my help?"

"No, Senator Eldridge wouldn’t see you....Aw, skip it, Gail, we know you flew to

Washington last week. What you don’t know is that Senator Eldridge is going

around saying he wouldn’t touch this with a ten-foot pole. And Boss Craig

suddenly got called out to Florida, did he?--to sit up with a sick aunt? None of

them will pull you out of this one, Gail. This isn’t a road-paving deal or a

little watered-stock scandal. And you ain’t what you used to be."

Wynand thought: I never used to be, I’ve never been here, why are you afraid to

look at me? Don’t you know that I’m the least among you? The half-naked women in

the Sunday supplement, the babies in the rotogravure section, the editorials on

park squirrels, they were your souls given expression, the straight stuff of

your souls--but where was mine?

"I’ll be damned if I can see any sense to it. Now, if they were demanding a

raise in wages, that I could understand, I’d say fight the bastards for all

we’re worth. But what’s this--a God-damn intellectual issue of some kind? Are we

losing our shirts for principles or something?"

"Don’t you understand? The Banner’s a church publication now. Mr. Gail Wynand,

the evangelist. We’re over a barrel, but we’ve got ideals."

"Now if it were a real issue, a political issue--but some fool dynamiter who’s

blown up some dump! Everybody’s laughing at us. Honest, Wynand, I’ve tried to

read your editorials and if you want my honest opinion, it’s the lousiest stuff

ever put in print. You’d think you were writing for college professors!"

Wynand thought: I know you--you’re the one who’d give money to a pregnant slut,

but not to a starving genius--I’ve seen your face before--I picked you and I

brought you in--when in doubt about your work, remember that man’s face, you’re

writing for him--but, Mr. Wynand, one can’t remember his face--one can, child,

one can, it will come back to remind you--it will come back and demand

payment--and I’ll pay--I signed a blank check long ago and now it’s presented

for collection--but a blank check is always made out to the sum of everything

you’ve got.

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"The situation is medieval and a disgrace to democracy." The voice whined. It

was Mitchell Layton speaking. "It’s about time somebody had some say around

here. One man running all those papers as he damn pleases--what is this, the

nineteenth century?" Layton pouted; he looked somewhere in the direction of a

banker across the table. "Has anybody here ever bothered to inquire about my

ideas? I’ve got ideas. We’ve all got to pool ideas. What I mean is teamwork, one

big orchestra. It’s about time this paper had a modem, liberal, progressive

policy! For instance, take the question of the sharecroppers..."

"Shut up, Mitch," said Alvah Scarret. Scarret had drops of sweat running down

his temples; he didn’t know why; he wanted the board to win; there was just

something in the room...it’s too hot in here, he thought, I wish somebody’d open

a window.

"I won’t shut up!" shrieked Mitchell Layton. "I’m just as good as..."

"Please, Mr. Layton," said the banker.

"All right," said Layton, "all right. Don’t forget who holds the biggest hunk of

stock next to Superman here." He jerked his thumb at Wynand, not looking at him.

"Just don’t forget it. Just you guess who’s going to run things around here."

"Gail," said Alvah Scarret, looking up at Wynand, his eyes strangely honest and

tortured, "Gail, it’s no use. But we can save the pieces. Look, if we just admit

that we were wrong about Cortlandt and...and if we just take Harding back, he’s

a valuable man, and...maybe Toohey..."

"No one is to mention the name of Toohey in this discussion," said Wynand.

Mitchell Layton snapped his mouth open and dropped it shut again.

"That’s it, Gail!" cried Alvah Scarret. "That’s great! We can bargain and make

them an offer. We’ll reverse our policy on Cortlandt--that, we’ve got to, not

for the damn Union, but we’ve got to rebuild circulation, Gail--so we’ll offer

them that and we’ll take Harding, Alien and Falk, but not To...not Ellsworth. We

give in and they give in. Saves everybody’s face. Is that it, Gail?"

Wynand said nothing.

"I think that’s it, Mr. Scarret," said the banker. "I think that’s the solution.

After all, Mr. Wynand must be allowed to maintain his prestige. We can

sacrifice...a columnist and keep peace among ourselves."

"I don’t see it!" yelled Mitchell Layton. "I don’t see it at all! Why should we

sacrifice Mr....a great liberal, just because..."

"I stand with Mr. Scarret," said the man who had spoken of Senators, and the

voices of the others seconded him, and the man who had criticized the editorials

said suddenly, in the general noise: "I think Gail Wynand was a hell of a swell

boss after all!" There was something about Mitchell Layton which he didn’t want

to see. Now he looked at Wynand, for protection. Wynand did not notice him.

"Gail?" asked Scarret. "Gail, what do you say?" There was no answer.

"God damn it, Wynand, it’s now or never! This can’t go on!"

"Make up your mind or get out!"

"I’ll buy you out!" shrieked Layton. "Want to sell? Want to sell and get the

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hell out of it?"

"For God’s sake, Wynand, don’t be a fool!"

"Gail, it’s the Banner..." whispered Scarret. "It’s our Banner...."

"We’ll stand by you, Gail, we’ll all chip in, we’ll pull the old paper back on

its feet, we’ll do as you say, you’ll be the boss--but for God’s sake, act like

a boss now!"

"Quiet, gentlemen, quiet! Wynand, this is final: we switch policy on Cortlandt,

we take Harding, Alien and Falk back, and we save the wreck. Yes or no?"

There was no answer.

"Wynand, you know it’s that--or you have to close the Banner. You can’t keep

this up, even if you bought us all out. Give in or close the Banner. You had

better give in."

Wynand heard that. He had heard it through all the speeches. He had heard it for

days before the meeting. He knew it better than any man present. Close the

Banner.

He saw a single picture: the new masthead rising over the door of the Gazette.

"You had better give in."

He made a step back. It was not a wall behind him. It was only the side of his

chair.

He thought of the moment in his bedroom when he had almost pulled a trigger. He

knew he was pulling it now.

"All right," he said.

#

It’s only a bottle cap, thought Wynand looking down at a speck of glitter under

his feet; a bottle cap ground into the pavement. The pavements of New York are

full of things like that--bottle caps, safety pins, campaign buttons, sink

chains; sometimes--lost jewels; it’s all alike now, flattened, ground in; it

makes the pavements sparkle at night. The fertilizer of a city. Someone drank

the bottle empty and threw the cap away. How many cars have passed over it?

Could one retrieve it now? Could one kneel and dig with bare hands and tear it