"Oh, to hell with them!" he said happily, stretching his legs, shifting the position of his body on the couch, stressing the luxury of relaxation. "I'm no good as a public figure. Anyway, it doesn't matter now.
We don't have to care what they see or don't see. They'll leave us alone. It's clear track ahead. What's the next undertaking, Mr. Vice-President?"
"A transcontinental track of Rearden Metal."
"How soon do you want it?"
"Tomorrow morning. Three years from now is when I'll get it."
"Think you can do it in three years?"
"If the John Galt . . . if the Rio Norte Line does as well as it's doing now."
"It's going to do better. That's only the beginning."
"I have an installment plan made out. As the money comes in, I'm going to start tearing up the main track, one division at a time, and replacing it with Rearden Metal rail."
"Okay. Any time you wish to start."
"I'll keep moving the old rail to the branch lines—they won't last much longer, if I don't. In three years, you'll ride on your own Metal into San Francisco, if somebody wants to give you a banquet there."
"In three years, I'll have mills pouring Rearden Metal in Colorado, in Michigan and in Idaho. That's my installment plan."
"Your own mills? Branches?"
"Uh-huh."
"What about the Equalization of Opportunity Bill?"
"You don't think it's going to exist three years from now, do you?
We've given them such a demonstration that all that rot is going to be swept away. The whole country is with us. Who'll want to stop things now? Who'll listen to the bilge? There's a lobby of the better kind of men working In Washington right this moment. They're going to get the Equalization Bill scrapped at the next session."
"I . . . I hope so."
"I've had a terrible time, these last few weeks, getting the new furnaces started, but it's all set now, they're being built, I can sit back and take it easy. I can sit at my desk, rake in the money, loaf like a bum, watch the orders for the Metal pouring in and play favorites ail over the place. . . . Say, what's the first train you've got for Philadelphia tomorrow morning?"
"Oh, I don't know."
"You don't? What's the use of an Operating Vice-president? I have to be at the mills by seven tomorrow. Got anything running around six?"
"Five-thirty A.M. is the first one, I think."
"Will you wake me up in time to make it or would you rather order the train held for me?"
"I'll wake you up."
“Ok".
She sat, watching him as he remained silent. He had looked tired when he came in; the lines of exhaustion were gone from his face now.
"Dagny," he asked suddenly; his tone had changed, there was some hidden, earnest note in his voice, "why didn't you want to see me in public?"
"I don't want to be part of your . . . official life."
He did not answer; in a moment, he asked casually, "When did you take a vacation last?"
"I think it was two . . . no, three years ago."
"What did you do?"
"Went to the Adirondacks for a month. Came back in a week."
"I did that five years ago. Only it was Oregon." He lay flat on his back, looking at the ceiling. "Dagny, let's take a vacation together. Let's take my car and drive away for a few weeks, anywhere, just drive, down the back roads, where no one knows us. We'll leave no address, we won't look at a newspaper, we won't touch a phone—we won't have any official life at all."
She got up. She approached him, she stood by the side of the couch, looking down at him, the light of the lamp behind her; she did not want him to see her face and the effort she was making not to smile.
"You can take a few weeks off. can't you?" he said. "Things are set and going now. It's safe. We won't have another chance in the next three years."
"All right, Hank," she said, forcing her voice to sound calmly toneless.
"Will you?"
"When do you want to start?"
"Monday morning."
"All right."
She turned to step away. He seized her wrist, pulled her down, swung her body to lie stretched full-length on top of him, he held her still, uncomfortably, as she had fallen, his one hand in her hair, pressing her mouth to his, his other hand moving from the shoulder blades under her thin blouse to her waist, to her legs. She whispered, "And you say I don't need you . . . !"
She pulled herself away from him, and stood up, brushing her hair off her face. He lay still, looking up at her, his eyes narrowed, the bright flicker of some particular interest in his eyes, intent and faintly mocking. She glanced down: a strap of her slip had broken, the slip hung diagonally from her one shoulder to her side, and he was looking at her breast under the transparent film of the blouse. She raised her hand to adjust the strap. He slapped her hand down. She smiled, in understanding, in answering mockery. She walked slowly, deliberately across the room and leaned against a table, facing him, her hands holding the table's edge, her shoulders thrown back. It was the contrast he liked—the severity of her clothes and the half-naked body, the railroad executive who was a woman he owned.
