The Early Ayn Rand

"The owners won't like it," said the superintendent, as a regretful afterthought.

"They'll take it and keep their damn mouths shut," said Roark. "Give me another board. Now look. Here's what you do on the two floors below." He went on drawing for a long time, throwing words over his shoulder once in a while.

"Yes," whispered the superintendent. "But... but what'll I say if someone asks if..."

"Say I gave the orders. Now keep these and get started." He turned to Darrow. "I'll draw up the plans and you'll have them this afternoon to check, and let him have them as soon

as possible." He turned to the superintendent. "Now go ahead."

"Yes, sir," said the superintendent. He said it respectfully.

They went down silently in the elevator. The superintendent was studying the drawings, Darrow was studying Roark, Roark was looking at the building.

They reached the ground below and Roark went back to Cameron. He took Cameron's elbows and helped him slowly to his feet. The estimator had disappeared.

"I'll take you home, Mr. Cameron," Roark said gently.

"Huh?" muttered Cameron. "Yes... oh, yes..." He nodded vaguely, in assent to nothing comprehensible.

Roark led him away. Then Cameron shook off the hands holding him, tottered and turned around. He stood, looking up at the steel skeleton, his head thrown back. He flung his arms out wide, and stood still, only his fingers moving weakly, uselessly, as if reaching for something. His lips moved; he wanted to speak; he said nothing.

"Look..." he whispered at last. "Look..." His voice was soft, choked, pleading, pleading desperately for the words he could not find. "Look..." He had so much to say. "Look..." he muttered hopelessly.

When Roark took his arm again, he did not resist. Roark led him to a cab and they drove to Cameron's home. Roark knew Cameron's address, but had never been inside his one stuffy, unkempt furnished room that bore on its walls, as its single distinction, framed photographs of his buildings. The bed stood untouched, unused the night before. Cameron had followed docilely up the stairs. But the sight of his room seemed to awaken something in his brain. He jerked loose suddenly; he whirled upon Roark, and his face was white with rage.

"What are you doing here?" he screamed, choking, his voice gulping in his throat. "What are you following me for? I hate you, whoever you are. I know what's the matter with me. It's because I can't bear the sight of you. There you stand reproaching me!"

"I don't," whispered Roark.

"God damn you! That's what's been following me. You're the one who's making me miserable. Everything else's all right, but you're the one who's putting me through hell. You're out to kill me, you..." And then there followed a torrent of such blasphemy as Roark had never heard on any waterfront, in any construction gang. Roark stood silently, waiting.

"Get out!" roared Cameron, lurching toward him. "Get out of here! Get out of my sight! Get out!"

Roark did not move. Cameron raised his hand and struck him across the mouth.

Roark fell back against a bedstand, but caught his balance, his feet steady, his body huddled against the stand, his hands behind him, pressed to its sides. He looked at Cameron. The sound of the blow had knocked Cameron into a sudden, lucid, sober pause of consciousness. He stared at Roark, his mouth half-open, his eyes dull, blank, frightened, but focused.

"Howard..." he muttered- "Howard, what are you doing here?"

His hand went across his wet forehead, trying vainly to remember.

"Howard, what was it? What happened?"

"Nothing, Mr. Cameron," Roark whispered, his handkerchief hidden in his hand, pressed to his mouth, swiftly wiping off the blood. "Nothing."

"Something's happened. Are you all right, Howard?"

"I'm all right, Mr. Cameron. But you'd better go to bed. I'll help you."

The old man did not resist, his legs giving way under him, his eyes empty, while Roark undressed him and pulled the blanket over him.

"Howard," he whispered, his face white on the pillow, his eyes closed, "I never wanted you to see it. But now you've seen it. Now you know."

"Try to sleep, Mr. Cameron."

"An honor..." Cameron whispered, without opening his eyes, "an honor that I could not have deserved... Who said that?"

"Go to sleep, Mr. Cameron. You'll be all right tomorrow."

"You hate me now," said Cameron, raising his head, looking at Roark, a soft, lost, unexpecting smile in his eyes, "don't you?"

"No," said Roark. "But I hate everyone else in the world."

Cameron's head fell back on the pillow. He lay still, his hands small, drawn, and yellow on the white bed-cloth. Then he was asleep.

There was no one to call. Roark asked the sleepy, indifferent landlady to look after Cameron, and returned to the office.

He went straight to his table, noticing no one. He pulled a sheet of paper forward and went to work silently.

"Well?" asked Loomis. "What happened down there?" asked Simpson.

"Penthouse floor arches," Roark answered without raising his head.

"Jesus!" gasped Simpson. "Now what?"