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"Yes...Probably..."

"Marry Wynand and stay married to him. It will be better than what you’re doing

to yourself right now."

"Do you mind...if we just sit here for a little while longer...and not talk

about that...but just talk, as if everything were right...just an armistice for

half an hour out of years....Tell me what you’ve done every day you’ve been

here, everything you can remember...."

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Then they talked, as if the stoop of the vacant house were an airplane hanging

in space, without sight of earth or sky; he did not look across the street.

Then he glanced at his wrist watch and said:

"There’s a train for the West in an hour. Shall I go with you to the station?"

"Do you mind if we walk there?"

"All right."

She stood up. She asked:

"Until--when, Roark?"

His hand moved over the streets. "Until you stop hating all this, stop being

afraid of it, learn not to notice it."

They walked together to the station. She listened to the sound of his steps with

hers in the empty streets. She let her glance drag along the walls they passed,

like a clinging touch. She loved this place, this town and everything that was

part of it.

They were walking past a vacant lot. The wind blew an old sheet of newspaper

against her legs. It clung to her with a tight insistence that seemed conscious,

like the peremptory caress of a cat. She thought, anything of this town had that

intimate right to her. She bent, picked up the paper and began folding it, to

keep it

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Something to read on the train," she said stupidly.

He snatched the paper from her, crumpled it and flung it away into the weeds.

She said nothing and they walked on.

A single light bulb hung over the empty station platform. They waited. He stood

looking up the tracks, where the train was to appear. When the tracks rang,

shuddering, when the white ball of a headlight spurted out of the distance and

stood still in the sky, not approaching, only widening, growing in furious

speed, he did not move or turn to her. The rushing beam flung his shadow across

the platform, made it sweep over the planks and vanish. For an instant she saw

the tall, straight line of his body against the glare. The engine passed them

and the car rattled, slowing down. He looked at the windows rolling past. She

could not see his face, only the outline of his cheekbone.

When the train stopped, he turned to her. They did not shake hands, they did not

speak. They stood straight, facing each other for a moment, as if at attention;

it was almost like a military salute. Then she picked up her suitcase and went

aboard the train. The train started moving a minute later.

6.

"CHUCK: And why not a muskrat? Why should man imagine himself superior to a

muskrat? Life beats in all the small creatures of field and wood. Life singing

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of eternal sorrow. An old sorrow. The Song of Songs. We don’t understand--but

who cares about understanding? Only public accountants and chiropodists. Also

mailmen. We only love. The Sweet Mystery of Love. That’s all there is to it.

Give me love and shove all your philosophers up your stovepipe. When Mary took

the homeless muskrat, her heart broke open and life and love rushed in. Muskrats

make good imitation mink coats, but that’s not the point. Life is the point.

"Jake: (rushing in) Say, folks, who’s got a stamp with a picture of George

Washington on it?

"Curtain."

Ike slammed his manuscript shut and took a long swig of air. His voice was

hoarse after two hours of reading aloud and he had read the climax of his play

on a single long breath. He looked at his audience, his mouth smiling in

self-mockery, his eyebrows raised insolently, but his eyes pleading.

Ellsworth Toohey, sitting on the floor, scratched his spine against a chair leg

and yawned. Gus Webb, stretched out on his stomach in the middle of the room,

rolled over on his back. Lancelot Clokey, the foreign correspondent, reached for

his highball glass and finished it off. Jules Fougler, the new drama critic of

the Banner, sat without moving; he had not moved for two hours. Lois Cook,

hostess, raised her arms, twisting them, stretching, and said:

"Jesus, Ike, it’s awful."

Lancelot Clokey drawled, "Lois, my girl, where do you keep your gin? Don’t be

such a damn miser. You’re the worst hostess I know."

Gus Webb said, "I don’t understand literature. It’s nonproductive and a waste of

time. Authors will be liquidated."

Ike laughed shrilly. "A stinker, huh?" He waved his script. "A real

super-stinker. What do you think I wrote it for? Just show me anyone who can

write a bigger flop. Worst play you’ll ever hear in your life."

It was not a formal meeting of the Council of American Writers, but an

unofficial gathering. Ike had asked a few of his friends to listen to his latest

work. At twenty-six he had written eleven plays, but had never had one produced.

"You’d better give up the theater, Ike," said Lancelot Clokey. "Writing is a

serious business and not for any stray bastard that wants to try it." Lancelot

Clokey’s first book--an account of his personal adventures in foreign

countries--was in its tenth week on the best-seller list.

"Why isn’t it, Lance?" Toohey drawled sweetly.

"All right," snapped Clokey, "all right. Give me a drink."

"It’s awful," said Lois Cook, her head lolling wearily from side to side. "It’s

perfectly awful. It’s so awful it’s wonderful."

"Balls," said Gus Webb. "Why do I ever come here?"

Ike flung his script at the fireplace. It struck against the wire screen and

landed, face down, open, the thin pages crushed.

"If Ibsen can write plays, why can’t I?" he asked. "He’s good and I’m lousy, but

that’s not a sufficient reason."

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"Not in the cosmic sense," said Lancelot Clokey. "Still, you’re lousy."

"You don’t have to say it. I said so first."

"This is a great play," said a voice.

The voice was slow, nasal and bored. It had spoken for the first time that

evening, and they all turned to Jules Fougler. A cartoonist had once drawn a

famous picture of him; it consisted of two sagging circles, a large one and a

small one: the large one was his stomach, the small one--his lower lip. He wore

a suit, beautifully tailored, of a color to which he referred as "merde d’oie."

He kept his gloves on at all times and he carried a cane. He was an eminent

drama critic.

Jules Fougler stretched out his cane, caught the playscript with the hook of the

handle and dragged it across the floor to his feet. He did not pick it up, but

he repeated, looking down at it:

"This is a great play."

"Why?" asked Lancelot Clokey.

"Because I say so," said Jules Fougler.

"Is that a gag, Jules?" asked Lois Cook.

"I never gag," said Jules Fougler. "It is vulgar."

"Send me a coupla seats to the opening," sneered Lancelot Clokey.

"Eight-eighty for two seats to the opening," said Jules Fougler. "It will be the

biggest hit of the season."

Jules Fougler turned and saw Toohey looking at him. Toohey smiled but the smile

was not light or careless; it was an approving commentary upon something he

considered as very serious indeed. Fougler’s glance was contemptuous when turned

to the others, but it relaxed for a moment of understanding when it rested on

Toohey.

"Why don’t you join the Council of American Writers, Jules?" asked Toohey.

"I am an individualist," said Fougler. "I don’t believe in organizations.

Besides, is it necessary?"

"No, not necessary at all," said Toohey cheerfully. "Not for you, Jules. There’s

nothing I can teach you."

"What I like about you, Ellsworth, is that it’s never necessary to explain

myself to you."

"Hell, why explain anything here? We’re six of a kind."

"Five," said Fougler. "I don’t like Gus Webb."

"Why don’t you?" asked Gus. He was not offended.

"Because he doesn’t wash his ears," answered Fougler, as if the question had

been asked by a third party.

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"Oh, that," said Gus.

Ike had risen and stood staring at Fougler, not quite certain whether he should

breathe.

"You like my play, Mr. Fougler?" he asked at last, his voice small.

"I haven’t said I liked it," Fougler answered coldly. "I think it smells. That

is why it’s great."

"Oh," said Ike. He laughed. He seemed relieved. His glance went around the faces

in the room, a glance of sly triumph.

"Yes," said Fougler, "my approach to its criticism is the same as your approach

to its writing. Our motives are identical."

"You’re a grand guy, Jules."

"Mr. Fougler, please."

"You’re a grand guy and the swellest bastard on earth, Mr. Fougler."

Fougler turned the pages of the script at his feet with the tip of his cane.

"Your typing is atrocious, Ike," he said.

"Hell, I’m not a stenographer. I’m a creative artist."

"You will be able to afford a secretary after this show opens. I shall be

obliged to praise it--if for no other reason than to prevent any further abuse

of a typewriter, such as this. The typewriter is a splendid instrument, not to

be outraged."

"All right, Jules," said Lancelot Clokey, "it’s all very witty and smart and

you’re sophisticated and brilliant as all get-out--but what do you actually want

to praise that crap for?"

"Because it is--as you put it--crap."

"You’re not logical, Lance," said Ike. "Not in the cosmic sense, you aren’t. To

write a good play and to have it praised is nothing. Anybody can do that.

Anybody with talent--and talent is only a glandular accident. But to write a

piece of crap and have it praised--well, you match that."

"He has," said Toohey.

"That’s a matter of opinion," said Lancelot Clokey. He upturned his empty glass

over his mouth and sucked at a last piece of ice.

"Ike understands things much better than you do, Lance," said Jules Fougler. "He

has just proved himself to be a real thinker--in that little speech of his.

Which, incidentally, was better than his whole play."

"I’ll write my next play about that," said Ike.

"Ike has stated his reasons," Fougler continued. "And mine. And also yours,

Lance. Examine my case, if you wish. What achievement is there for a critic in

praising a good play? None whatever. The critic is then nothing but a kind of

414

glorified messenger boy between author and public. What’s there in that for me?

I’m sick of it. I have a right to wish to impress my own personality upon

people. Otherwise, I shall become frustrated--and I do not believe in

frustration. But if a critic is able to put over a perfectly worthless play--ah,

you do perceive the difference! Therefore, I shall make a hit out of--what’s the

name of your play, Ike?"

"No skin off your ass," said Ike.

"I beg your pardon?"

"That’s the title."

"Oh, I see. Therefore, I shall make a hit out of No Skin Off Your Ass."

Lois Cook laughed loudly.

"You all make too damn much fuss about everything," said Gus Webb, lying flat,

his hands entwined under his head.

"Now if you wish to consider your own case, Lance," Fougler went on. "What

satisfaction is there for a correspondent in reporting on world events? The

public reads about all sorts of international crises and you’re lucky if they

ever notice your by-line. But you’re every bit as good as any general, admiral

or ambassador. You have a right to make people conscious of yourself. So you’ve

done the wise thing. You’ve written a remarkable collection of bilge--yes,

bilge--but morally justified. A clever book. World catastrophes used as a

backdrop for your own nasty little personality. How Lancelot Clokey got drunk at

an international conference. What beauties slept with Lancelot Clokey during an

invasion. How Lancelot Clokey got dysentery in a land of famine. Well, why not,

Lance? It went over, didn’t it? Ellsworth put it over, didn’t he?"

"The public appreciates good human-interest stuff," said Lancelot Clokey,

looking angrily into his glass.

"Oh, can the crap, Lance!" cried Lois Cook. "Who’re you acting for here? You

know damn well it wasn’t any kind of a human interest, but plain Ellsworth

Toohey."

"I don’t forget what I owe Ellsworth," said Clokey sullenly. "Ellsworth’s my

best friend. Still, he couldn’t have done it if he didn’t have a good book to do

it with."

Eight months ago Lancelot Clokey had stood with a manuscript in his hand before

Ellsworth Toohey, as Ike stood before Fougler now, not believing it when Toohey

told him that his book would top the bestseller list. But two hundred thousand

copies sold had made it impossible for Clokey ever to recognize any truth again

in any form.

"Well, he did it with The Gallant Gallstone," said Lois Cook placidly, "and a

worse piece of trash never was put down on paper. I ought to know. But he did

it."

"And almost lost my job doing it," said Toohey indifferently.

"What do you do with your liquor, Lois?" snapped Clokey. "Save it to take a bath

in?"

"All right, blotter," said Lois Cook, rising lazily.

415

She shuffled across the room, picked somebody’s unfinished drink off the floor,

drank the remnant, walked out and came back with an assortment of expensive