Atlas Shrugged

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farmhouse. There were herds of sheep, some horses, the fenced squares of pigpens under the sprawling
shapes of wooden barns and, farther away, a metal hangar of a type that did not belong on a farm, A
man in a bright cowboy shirt was hurrying toward them. Galt stopped the car and waved to him, but said
nothing in answer to her questioning glance. He let her discover for herself, when the man came closer,
that it was Dwight Sanders, "Hello, Miss Taggart," he said, smiling.
She looked silently at his rolled shirt sleeves, at his heavy boots, at the herds of cattle. "So that's all that's
left of Sanders Aircraft," she said.
"Why, no. There's that excellent monoplane, my best model, which you flattened up in the foothills."
"Oh, you know about that? Yes, it was one of yours. It was a wonderful ship. But I'm afraid I've
damaged it pretty badly."
"You ought to have it fixed."
"I think I've ripped the bottom. Nobody can fix it."
"I can."
These were the words and the tone of confidence that she had not heard for years, this was the manner
she had given up expecting—but the start of her smile ended in a bitter chuckle. "How?" she asked. "On
a hog farm?"
"Why, no. At Sanders Aircraft."
"Where is it?"
"Where did you think it was? In that building in New Jersey, which Tinky Holloway's cousin bought from
my bankrupt successors by means of a government loan and a tax suspension? In that building where he
produced six planes that never left the ground and eight that did, but crashed with forty passengers
each?"
"Where is it, then?"
"Wherever I am."
He pointed across the road. Glancing down through the tops of the pine trees, she saw the concrete
rectangle of an airfield on the bottom of the valley.
"We have a few planes here and it's my job to take care of them," he said. "I'm the hog farmer and the
airfield attendant. I'm doing quite well at producing ham and bacon, without the men from whom I used
to buy it. But those men cannot produce airplanes without me—and, without me, they cannot even
produce their ham and bacon,"
"But you—you have not been designing airplanes, either."
"No, I haven't. And I haven't been manufacturing the Diesel engines I once promised you. Since the time
I saw you last, I have designed and manufactured just one new tractor. I mean, one—I tooled it by
hand—no mass production was necessary. But that tractor has cut an eight-hour workday down to four
hours on"—the straight line of his arm, extended to point across the valley, moved like a royal scepter;