Atlas Shrugged

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last, this year. There's a thing I've always wanted to do, but never had time for it. Let's go back to New
York together and take one of those excursion boat trips around the island of Manhattan. Let's take a
last look at the greatest city in the world."
She sat still, trying to hold her eyes fixed in order to stop the office from swaying. This was the Ken
Danagger who had never had a personal friend, had never married, had never attended a play or a
movie, had never permitted anyone the impertinence of taking his time for any concern but business.
"Mr. Danagger, I came here to speak to you about a matter of crucial importance to the future of your
business and mine. I came to speak to you about your indictment."
"Oh, that? Don't worry about that. It doesn't matter. I'm going to retire."
She sat still, feeling nothing, wondering numbly whether this was how it felt to hear a death sentence one
had dreaded, but had never quite believed possible.
Her first movement was a sudden jerk of her head toward the exit door; she asked, her voice low, her
mouth distorted by hatred, "Who was he?"
Danagger laughed. "If you've guessed that much, you should have guessed that it's a question I won't
answer."
"Oh God, Ken Danagger!" she moaned; his words made her realize that the barrier of hopelessness, of
silence, of unanswered questions was already erected between them; the hatred had been only a thin wire
that had held her for a moment and she broke with its breaking.
"Oh God!"
"You're wrong, kid," he said gently. "I know how you feel, but you're wrong," then added more formally,
as if remembering the proper manner, as if still trying to balance himself between two kinds of reality, "I'm
sorry, Miss Taggart, that you had to come here so soon after."
"I came too late," she said. "That's what I came here to prevent. I knew it would happen."
"Why?"
"I felt certain that he'd get you next, whoever he is."
"You did? That's funny. I didn't."
"I wanted to warn you, to . . . to arm you against him."
He smiled. "Take my word for it, Miss Taggart, so that you won't torture yourself with regrets about the
timing; that could not have been done."
She felt that with every passing minute he was moving away into some great distance where she would
not be able to reach him, but there was still some thin bridge left between them and she had to hurry.
She leaned forward, she said very quietly, the intensity of emotion taking form in the exaggerated
steadiness of her voice, "Do you remember what you thought and felt, what you were, three hours ago?
Do you remember what your mines meant to you? Do you remember Taggart Transcontinental or