Atlas Shrugged

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

---

was certain that Francisco felt it, too, that he had been moved by the same impulse, that it was right to
feel it, right for both of them to be what they were—he caught glimpses of a sweat-streaked face intent
upon action, and it was the most joyous face he had ever seen.
The furnace stood above them, a black bulk wrapped in coils of tubes and steam; she seemed to pant,
shooting red gasps that hung on the air above the mills—and they fought not to let her bleed to death.
Sparks hung about their feet and burst in sudden sheafs out of the metal, dying unnoticed against their
clothes, against the skin of their hands. The stream was coming slower, in broken spurts through the dam
rising beyond their sight.
It happened so fast that Rearden knew it fully only after it was over.
He knew that there were two moments: the first was when he saw the violent swing of Francisco's body
in a forward thrust that sent the bullet to continue the line in space, then he saw the sudden, unrhythmic
jerk backward that did not succeed, the convulsive beating against a forward pull, the extended arms of
the silhouette losing its balance, he thought that a leap across the distance between them on the slippery,
crumbling ridge would mean the death of both of them—and the second moment was when he landed at
Francisco's side, held him in his arms, hung swaying together between space and ridge, over the white
pit, then gained his footing and pulled him back, and, for an instant, still held the length of Francisco's
body against the length of his own, as he would have held the body of an only son. His love, his terror,
his relief were in a single sentence: "Be careful, you goddamn fool!"
Francisco reached for a chunk of clay and went on.
When the job was done and the gap was closed, Rearden noticed that there was a twisting pain in the
muscles of his arms and legs, that his body had no strength left to move—yet that he felt as if he were
entering his office in the morning, eager for ten new problems to solve.
He looked at Francisco and noticed for the first time that their clothes had blade-ringed holes, that their
hands were bleeding, that there was a patch of skin torn on Francisco's temple and a red thread winding
down his cheekbone. Francisco pushed the goggles back off his eyes and grinned at him: it was a smile of
morning.
A young man with a look of chronic hurt and impertinence together, rushed up to him, crying, "I couldn't
help it, Mr. Rearden!" and launched into a speech of explanation. Rearden turned his back on him
without a word. It was the assistant in charge of the pressure gauge of the furnace, a young man out of
college.
Somewhere on the outer edge of Rearden's consciousness, there was the thought that accidents of this
nature were happening more frequently now, caused by the kind of ore he was using, but he had to use
whatever ore he could find. There was the thought that his old workers had always been able to avert
disaster; any of them would have seen e indications of a hang-up and known how to prevent it; but there
were not many of them left, and he had to employ whatever men he could find. Through the swirling coils
of steam around him, he observed that it was the older men who had rushed from all over the mills to
fight the break-out and now stood in line, being given first aid by the medical staff. He wondered what
was happening to the young men of the country. But the wonder was swallowed by the sight of the
college boy's face, which he could not bear to see, by a wave of contempt, by the wordless thought that
if this was the enemy, there was nothing to fear. All these things came to him and vanished in the outer
darkness; the sight blotting them out was Francisco d'Anconia, He saw Francisco giving orders to the
men around him. They did not know who he was or where he came from, but they listened: they knew he