The Early Ayn Rand

"Oh, what the hell!" said the estimator. "Darrow's been calling your place all morning and then this shows up all of a sudden!" He jerked his thumb at Cameron.

"What were you calling about? Where's the trouble?"

"Well, Roark, I don't know if you can do anything about it..." Darrow began, but the estimator interrupted him.

"Aw, what the hell! We got no time to waste explaining to punk kids!"

Roark was looking at Darrow.

"Well?" Roark asked, and the question was a command.

"It's the concrete," said Darrow impassively. "The penthouse, the elevator machinery-room floor arches. It's running under test. It won't stand the load. I told the bastards not to pour it in this weather. But they went right ahead. Now it's set. And it's no good. What are you going to do about it?"

Roark stood, his head thrown back, looking at the gray shadow of the penthouse among the gray clouds far away. Then he turned to the estimator.

"Well?" Roark asked.

"Well, what?" the estimator snapped, and added, his voice whining: "Aw, we couldn't help it!"

"Talk fast," said Roark.

"Aw, what the hell! We were behind schedule and the boss was stepping on us and the old man's sniveling about all the dough this thing's costing him as it is, and so we figured we'd save time, what the hell, nothing's ever happened before, and anyway you know how concrete is, it's a killer, you never can tell how the damn stuff will set, it's not our fault, it can happen to anybody, we couldn't help it... And anyway, if your damn drawings weren't so damn fancy, we could've... A good architect'd know how to fix it up, even if..." His voice just petered out before the eyes that faced him.

“Well, what's the use of bellyaching now?" the estimator snapped as Roark said nothing- "I say, let it go. It'll stand all right. If Darrow here wasn't so damn finicky... And anyway, it's a fine time to be getting soused on us! What can you expect with the kind of fine architect we got around here?"

"Look, Roark," Darrow said quietly, "the work's held up. Someone's got to decide."

Behind them, Cameron burst into laughter suddenly, a high, monotonous, senseless, agonized laughter. He was still sitting there, on the planks, and he looked up, and his face seemed contorted, even though not a muscle of it moved.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, staring at Roark, his eyes stubbornly insistent and disturbed. "That's what I want to know, what you're doing here. You look funny. You look damn funny. I like your face, do you know that? Yes, I like it. Look, get out of here. You should be home. You should be home and in bed. You don't feel well. Look, don't worry about what you see here, about this..." He waved his arm vaguely at the building. "It's no use. It's absolutely no use. It doesn't matter. Also they have a drill in there. You don't see it, but that's because they're clever, they've hidden it. What do you want to get hurt for? It doesn't matter anyway."

"There!" said the estimator triumphantly. "See?"

Cameron sat, breathing heavily, wisps of steam trembling from his open mouth up into the frozen air, his stiff, cold fingers convulsed on the edge of a plank, and he looked up at the men.

"You think I'm drunk, don't you?" he asked, his eyes narrow and sly. "You damn fools! All of you, the red-headed one in particular! You think I'm drunk. That's where you're wrong. This is the time when I'm sober. The only time. And then I can have peace. Otherwise, I'm drunk always. Drunk all the time. Seeing things that don't exist. Me, I drink to stop the DT's. I drink to see clearly for once. To know that it doesn't matter... Nothing... Not at all... It's so easy. Drink to learn to hate things. I've never felt better in my life."

"Pretty, ain't it?" said the estimator.

"Shut up," said Darrow.

"God damn you all!" the estimator screamed suddenly. "We wouldn't have had any trouble if they'd hired a real architect! That's what happens when people get charitable and pick out a worthless bum who's never been any good, an old drunk who..."

Roark turned to him. Roark's arm went back and down, and then forward slowly, as if gathering the weight of air upon the crook of his elbow; it was only a flash, but it seemed to last for minutes, the movement stopped, the taut arm motionless in speed, and then his knuckles shot up, to the man's jaw, and the estimator was on the ground, his knees bent, upturned, his hand on his cheek. Roark stood, his legs spread apart, his arms hanging indifferently by his sides.

"Let's go up," said Roark, turning to Darrow. "Get the superintendent. I'll tell you what's to be done."

They went inside the structure, behind them Cameron staring stupidly ahead and the estimator scrambling slowly to his feet, dusting himself, muttering to no one: "Aw, what the hell, I didn' mean no harm, what the hell, you can't do that to me, you son of a bitch, I'll get you canned for this, I didn' mean no harm..."