The Early Ayn Rand

But in the mornings, as Cameron entered his office sharply on the dot of nine, he would stop first at the door of the drafting room, throw a long, sharp glance at the men, then slam the door behind him. Loomis had said once, not suspecting the accuracy of what he thought to be a good joke, that Cameron had the look of a man who'd seen a miracle and wanted to make sure it hadn't gone-Then came the morning when Cameron was late. The clock on the wall of the drafting room was moving past the mark often, and Roark noticed that Loomis and Simpson were exchanging glances, silent, significant glances heavy with a secret he did not share. Loomis clucked his tongue once, looking at the clock, with a wet, bitter, mocking sound-Simpson sighed heavily and bent over his table, his old head bobbing softly up and down several times, in hopeless resignation.

At half past ten, Trager shuffled into the drafting room and stood on the threshold, seeing nobody.

"Mr. Darrow calling," he said to no one at all, the sounds of his voice like a string of precision dancers, all stiff and all alike, "says something awful's happened at the Huston Street job and he's going down there and for Mr. Cameron to meet him there at once. I guess one of you guys will have to go."

Darrow was the consulting structural engineer on the Huston Street job, and such a message from him went like a cold gust through the room. But it was the "I guess" that seemed to leap out of Trager's words, weighted with the secret meaning of why he guessed so and of why he expected them to know it. Loomis and Simpson looked helplessly at one another, and Loomis chuckled. Roark said brusquely, not knowing what had put anger into his voice: "Mr. Cameron said yesterday that he was going to inspect the Huston Street job. That's probably why he's late. Tell Darrow that he's on his way there now."

Loomis whistled through his teeth, and it seemed to Roark that the sound was laughing, bursting like steam from under tons of pressure of contempt. Trager would not move, would not look at Roark, but glanced slowly at the others. The others had nothing to say.

"Okay," said Trager, at last, to Roark, a flat, short sound concentrating within it a long sentence, saying that Trager would obey, because he didn't give a damn, even though he hadn't believed a single word of Roark's, because Roark knew better, or should. Trager turned and shuffled back to his telephone.

Half an hour later, he returned.

"Mr. Darrow calling from Huston Street," he said, his voice dull and even and sleepy, as if he were reporting on the amount of new pencils to be ordered, "he says to please send someone over and pour Mr. Cameron out of there, also to see what's to be done."

In the silence, Roark's T-square clattered loudly to the floor. The three men looked at him, and Loomis grinned viciously, triumphantly. But there was nothing to be seen on Roark's face. Roark turned to Trager slowly.

"I'm going there," said Roark.

"No, I guess you can't," mumbled Simpson. "I guess I gotta go."

"What can you do there?" Loomis snapped at Roark, more insolently than he had ever dared before. "What in hell do you know about construction? Let Simpson go."

"I'm going," said Roark.

He had his coat and cap on, he was out, before the others knew what to say; they knew also that they had better keep quiet.

Roark jumped into a cab, ordering: "Step on it! Fly, go through the lights!" He had in his pocket five dollars and forty-six cents, saved painstakingly from seven months of work. He hoped it would be enough to pay for the cab.

The Huston Street job was a twenty-story office building in a squalid block of lofts. It was the most important commission that Cameron had had for a long time. He had said nothing about it, but Roark knew that it was precious to the old master as a newborn child, as a first son. Once again, Cameron thought, he had a chance to show the indifferent city what he could do, how cheaply, how efficiently he could do it. Cameron, the bitter, the cynical, the hater of all men, had never lost the expectation of a miracle. He kept waiting, saying to himself always, "Next time," next time someone would see, next time the men who spent fortunes on grocery displays of marble vegetables and cursed the twisted, botched space within would realize the simplicity, the economy, the wisdom of his work, would come to him if he gave them but one more example. The example was granted to him again. And Cameron, who cursed all builders and owners, who laughed in their faces, prayed now that nothing would go wrong with the Huston Street job. Everything had gone wrong with it from the beginning.