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on him....But he represents...everything that’s wrong with the world...the

triumph...of overbearing vulgarity....It’s Gail Wynand that you’ll have to

fight, Howard...."

Then he did not speak for a long time. When he opened his eyes again, he smiled.

He said:

"I know...what you’re going through at your office just now...." Roark had never

spoken to him of that. "No...don’t deny and...don’t say anything....I

know....But...it’s all right....Don’t be afraid....Do you remember the day when

I tried to fire you?...Forget what I said to you then....It was not the whole

story....This is...Don’t be afraid....It was worth it...."

His voice failed and he could not use it any longer. But the faculty of sight

remained untouched and he could lie silently and look at Roark without effort.

He died half an hour later.

#

Keating saw Catherine often. He had not announced their engagement, but his

mother knew, and it was not a precious secret of his own any longer. Catherine

thought, at times, that he had dropped the sense of significance in their

meetings. She was spared the loneliness of waiting for him; but she had lost the

reassurance of his inevitable returns.

Keating had told her: "Let’s wait for the results of that movie competition,

Katie. It won’t be long, they’ll announce the decision in May. If I win--I’ll be

set for life. Then we’ll be married. And that’s when I’ll meet your uncle--and

he’ll want to meet me. And I’ve got to win."

"I know you’ll win."

"Besides, old Heyer won’t last another month. The doctor told us that we can

expect a second stroke at any time and that will be that. If it doesn’t get him

to the graveyard, it’ll certainly get him out of the office."

"Oh, Peter, I don’t like to hear you talk like that. You mustn’t be so...so

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terribly selfish."

"I’m sorry, dear. Well...yes, I guess I’m selfish. Everybody is."

He spent more time with Dominique. Dominique watched him complacently, as if he

presented no further problem to her. She seemed to find him suitable as an

inconsequential companion for an occasional, inconsequential evening. He thought

that she liked him. He knew that this was not an encouraging sign.

He forgot at times that she was Francon’s daughter; he forgot all the reasons

that prompted him to want her. He felt no need to be prompted. He wanted her. He

needed no reasons now but the excitement of her presence.

Yet he felt helpless before her. He refused to accept the thought that a woman

could remain indifferent to him. But he was not certain even of her

indifference. He waited and tried to guess her moods, to respond as he supposed

she wished him to respond. He received no answer.

On a spring night they attended a ball together. They danced, and he drew her

close, he stressed the touch of his fingers on her body. He knew that she

noticed and understood. She did not withdraw; she looked at him with an unmoving

glance that was almost expectation. When they were leaving, he held her wrap and

let his fingers rest on her shoulders; she did not move or draw the wrap closed;

she waited; she let him lift his hands. Then they walked together down to the

cab.

She sat silently in a corner of the cab; she had never before considered his

presence important enough to require silence. She sat, her legs crossed, her

wrap gathered tightly, her fingertips beating in slow rotation against her knee.

He closed his hand softly about her forearm. She did not resist; she did not

answer; only her fingers stopped beating. His lips touched her hair; it was not

a kiss, he merely let his lips rest against her hair for a long time.

When the cab stopped, he whispered: "Dominique...let me come up...for just a

moment..."

"Yes," she answered. The word was flat, impersonal, with no sound of invitation.

But she had never allowed it before. He followed her, his heart pounding.

There was one fragment of a second, as she entered her apartment, when she

stopped, waiting. He stared at her helplessly, bewildered, too happy. He noticed

the pause only when she was moving again, walking away from him, into the

drawing room. She sat down, and her hands fell limply one at each side, her arms

away from her body, leaving her unprotected. Her eyes were half closed,

rectangular, empty.

"Dominique..." he whispered, "Dominique...how lovely you are!..."

Then he was beside her, whispering incoherently:

"Dominique...Dominique, I love you...Don’t laugh at me, please don’t laugh!...My

whole life...anything you wish...Don’t you know how beautiful you

are?...Dominique...I love you..."

He stopped with his arms around her and his face over hers, to catch some hint

of response or resistance; he saw nothing. He jerked her violently against him

and kissed her lips.

His arms fell open. He let her body fall back against the seat, and he stared at

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her, aghast. It had not been a kiss; he had not held a woman in his arms; what

he had held and kissed had not been alive. Her lips had not moved in answer

against his; her arms had not moved to embrace him; it was not revulsion--he

could have understood revulsion. It was as if he could hold her forever or drop

her, kiss her again or go further to satisfy his desire--and her body would not

know it, would not notice it. She was looking at him, past him. She saw a

cigarette stub that had fallen off a tray on a table beside her, she moved her

hand and slipped the cigarette back into the tray.

"Dominique," he whispered stupidly, "didn’t you want me to kiss you?"

"Yes." She was not laughing at him; she was answering simply and helplessly.

"Haven’t you ever been kissed before?"

"Yes. Many times."

"Do you always act like that?"

"Always. Just like that."

"Why did you want me to kiss you?"

"I wanted to try it."

"You’re not human, Dominique."

She lifted her head, she got up and the sharp precision of the movement was her

own again. He knew he would hear no simple, confessing helplessness in her

voice; he knew the intimacy was ended, even though her words, when she spoke,

were more intimate and revealing than anything she had said; but she spoke as if

she did not care what she revealed or to whom:

"I suppose I’m one of those freaks you hear about, an utterly frigid woman. I’m

sorry, Peter. You see? You have no rivals, but that includes you also. A

disappointment, darling?"

"You...you’ll outgrow it...some day..."

"I’m really not so young, Peter. Twenty-five. It must be an interesting

experience to sleep with a man. I’ve wanted to want it. I should think it would

be exciting to become a dissolute woman. I am, you know, in everything but in

fact....Peter, you look as if you were going to blush in a moment, and that’s

very amusing."

"Dominique! Haven’t you ever been in love at all? Not even a little?"

"I haven’t. I really wanted to fall in love with you. I thought it would be

convenient. I’d have no trouble with you at all. But you see? I can’t feel

anything. I can’t feel any difference, whether it’s you or Alvah Scarret or

Lucius Heyer."

He got up. He did not want to look at her. He walked to a window and stood,

staring out, his hands clasped behind his back. He had forgotten his desire and

her beauty, but he remembered now that she was Francon’s daughter.

"Dominique, will you marry me?"

He knew he had to say it now; if he let himself think of her, he would never say

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it; what he felt for her did not matter any longer; he could not let it stand

between him and his future; and what lie felt for her was growing into hatred.

"You’re not serious?" she asked.

He turned to her. He spoke rapidly, easily; he was lying now, and so he was sure

of himself and it was not difficult:

"I love you, Dominique. I’m crazy about you. Give me a chance. If there’s no one

else, why not? You’ll learn to love me--because I understand you. I’ll be

patient. I’ll make you happy."

She shuddered suddenly, and then she laughed. She laughed simply, completely; he

saw the pale form of her dress trembling; she stood straight, her head thrown

back, like a string shaking with the vibrations of a blinding insult to him; an

insult, because her laughter was not bitter or mocking, but quite simply gay.

Then it stopped. She stood looking at him. She said earnestly:

"Peter, if I ever want to punish myself for something terrible, if I ever want

to punish myself disgustingly--I’ll marry you." She added: "Consider it a

promise."

"I’ll wait--no matter what reason you choose for it."

Then she smiled gaily, the cold, gay smile he dreaded.

"Really, Peter, you don’t have to do it, you know. You’ll get that partnership

anyway. And we’ll always be good friends. Now its time for you to go home. Don’t

forget, you’re taking me to the horse show Wednesday. Oh, yes, we’re going to

the horse show Wednesday. I adore horse shows. Good night, Peter."

He left and walked home through the warm spring night. He walked savagely. If,

at that moment, someone had offered him sole ownership of the firm of Francon &

Heyer at the price of marrying Dominique, he would have refused it. He knew

also, hating himself, that he would not refuse, if it were offered to him on the

following morning.

15.

THIS was fear. This was what one feels in nightmares, thought Peter Keating,

only then one awakens when it becomes unbearable, but he could neither awaken

nor bear it any longer. It had been growing, for days, for weeks, and now it had

caught him: this lewd, unspeakable dread of defeat. He would lose the

competition, he was certain that he would lose it, and the certainty grew as

each day of waiting passed. He could not work; he jerked when people spoke to

him; he had not slept for nights.

He walked toward the house of Lucius Heyer. He tried not to notice the faces of

the people he passed, but he had to notice; he had always looked at people; and

people looked at him, as they always did. He wanted to shout at them and tell

them to turn away, to leave him alone. They were staring at him, he thought,

because he was to fail and they knew it.

He was going to Heyer’s house to save himself from the coming disaster in the

only way he saw left to him. If he failed in that competition--and he knew he

was to fail--Francon would be shocked and disillusioned; then if Heyer died, as

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he could die at any moment, Francon would hesitate--in the bitter aftermath of a

public humiliation--to accept Keating as his partner; if Francon hesitated, the

game was lost. There were others waiting for the opportunity: Bennett, whom he

had been unable to get out of the office; Claude Stengel, who had been doing

very well on his own, and had approached Francon with an offer to buy Heyer’s

place. Keating had nothing to count on, except Francon’s uncertain faith in him.

Once another partner replaced Heyer, it would be the end of Keating’s future. He

had come too close and had missed. That was never forgiven.

Through the sleepless nights the decision had become clear and hard in his mind:

he had to close the issue at once; he had to take advantage of Francon’s deluded

hopes before the winner of the competition was announced; he had to force Heyer

out and take his place; he had only a few days left.

He remembered Francon’s gossip about Heyer’s character. He looked through the

files in Heyer’s office and found what he had hoped to find. It was a letter

from a contractor, written fifteen years ago; it stated merely that the

contractor was enclosing a check for twenty thousand dollars due Mr. Heyer.

Keating looked up the records for that particular building; it did seem that the

structure had cost more than it should have cost. That was the year when Heyer

had started his collection of porcelain.

He found Heyer alone in his study. It was a small, dim room and the air in it

seemed heavy, as if it had not been disturbed for years. The dark mahogany

paneling, the tapestries, the priceless pieces of old furniture were kept

faultlessly clean, but the room smelt, somehow, of indigence and of decay. There

was a single lamp burning on a small table in a corner, and five delicate,

precious cups of ancient porcelain on the table. Heyer sat hunched, examining

the cups in the dim light, with a vague, pointless enjoyment. He shuddered a

little when his old valet admitted Keating, and he blinked in vapid

bewilderment, but he asked Keating to sit down.

When he heard the first sounds of his own voice, Keating knew he had lost the

fear that had followed him on his way through the streets; his voice was cold

and steady. Tim Davis, he thought, Claude Stengel, and now just one more to be

removed.

He explained what he wanted, spreading upon the still air of the room one short,

concise, complete paragraph of thought, perfect as a gem with clean edges.

"And so, unless you inform Francon of your retirement tomorrow morning," he

concluded, holding the letter by a corner between two fingers, "this goes to the

A.G.A."

He waited. Heyer sat still, with his pale, bulging eyes blank and his mouth open

in a perfect circle. Keating shuddered and wondered whether he was speaking to

an idiot.

Then Heyer’s mouth moved and his pale pink tongue showed, flickering against his

lower teeth.

"But I don’t want to retire." He said it simply, guilelessly, in a little

petulant whine.

"You will have to retire."

"I don’t want to. I’m not going to. I’m a famous architect. I’ve always been a

famous architect. I wish people would stop bothering me. They all want me to

retire. I’ll tell you a secret." He leaned forward; he whispered slyly: "You may

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not know it, but I know, he can’t deceive me; Guy wants me to retire. He thinks