Ayn Rand - The Fountainhead

They did not want to look at the man before them. They leaned upon visions of the pickets outside — of the perfumed, manicured women who shrieked their support of Ellsworth Toohey in drawing-room discussions — of the broad, flat face of a girl who paced Fifth Avenue with a placard "We Don't Read Wynand" — for support and courage to say what they were saying.

Wynand thought of a crumbling wall on the edge of the Hudson. He heard steps approaching blocks away. Only this time there were no wires in his hand to hold his muscles ready.

"It's gone beyond all sense. Is this a business organization or a charitable society for the defense of personal friends?"

"Three hundred thousand dollars last week ... Never mind how I know it, Gail, no secret about it, your banker told me. All right, it's your money, but if you expect to get that back out of the sheet, let me tell you we're wise to your smart tricks. You're not going to saddle the corporation with that one, not a penny of it, you don't get away with it this time, it's too late, Gail, the day's past for your bright stunts."

Wynand looked at the fleshy lips of the man making sounds, and thought: You've run the Banner, from the beginning, you didn't know it, but I know, it was you, it was your paper, there's nothing to save now.

"Yes, Slottern and his bunch are willing to come back at once, all they ask is that we accept the Union's demands, and they'll pick up the balance of their contracts, on the old terms, even without waiting for you to rebuild circulation — which will be some job, friend, let me tell you — and I think that's pretty white of them. I spoke to Homer yesterday and he gave me his word — care to hear me name the sums involved, Wynand, or do you know it without my help?"

"No, Senator Eldridge wouldn't see you ... Aw, skip it, Gail, we know you flew to Washington last week. What you don't know is that Senator Eldridge is going around saying he wouldn't touch this with a ten-foot pole. And Boss Craig suddenly got called out to Florida, did he? — to sit up with a sick aunt? None of them will pull you out of this one, Gail. This isn't a road-paving deal or a little watered-stock scandal. And you ain't what you used to be."

Wynand thought: I never used to be, I've never been here, why are you afraid to look at me? Don't you know that I'm the least among you? The half-naked women in the Sunday supplement, the babies in the rotogravure section, the editorials on park squirrels, they were your souls given expression, the straight stuff of your souls — but where was mine?

"I'll be damned if I can see any sense to it. Now, if they were demanding a raise in wages, that I could understand, I'd say fight the bastards for all we're worth. But what's this — a God-damn intellectual issue of some kind? Are we losing our shirts for principles or something?"

"Don't you understand? The Banner's a church publication now. Mr. Gail Wynand, the evangelist. We're over a barrel, but we've got ideals."

"Now if it were a real issue, a political issue — but some fool dynamiter who's blown up some dump! Everybody's laughing at us. Honest, Wynand, I've tried to read your editorials and if you want my honest opinion, it's the lousiest stuff ever put in print. You'd think you were writing for college professors!"

Wynand thought: I know you — you're the one who'd give money to a pregnant slut, but not to a starving genius — I've seen your face before — I picked you and I brought you in — when in doubt about your work, remember that man's face, you're writing for him — but, Mr. Wynand, one can't remember his face — one can, child, one can, it will come back to remind you — it will come back and demand payment — and I'll pay — I signed a blank check long ago and now it's presented for collection — but a blank check is always made out to the sum of everything you've got.

"The situation is medieval and a disgrace to democracy." The voice whined. It was Mitchell Layton speaking. "It's about time somebody had some say around here. One man running all those papers as he damn pleases — what is this, the nineteenth century?" Layton pouted; he looked somewhere in the direction of a banker across the table. "Has anybody here ever bothered to inquire about my ideas? I've got ideas. We've all got to pool ideas. What I mean is teamwork, one big orchestra. It's about time this paper had a modem, liberal, progressive policy! For instance, take the question of the sharecroppers ... "

"Shut up, Mitch," said Alvah Scarret. Scarret had drops of sweat running down his temples; he didn't know why; he wanted the board to win; there was just something in the room ... it's too hot in here, he thought, I wish somebody'd open a window.

"I won't shut up!" shrieked Mitchell Layton. "I'm just as good as ... "

"Please, Mr. Layton," said the banker.

"All right," said Layton, "all right. Don't forget who holds the biggest hunk of stock next to Superman here." He jerked his thumb at Wynand, not looking at him. "Just don't forget it. Just you guess who's going to run things around here."

"Gail," said Alvah Scarret, looking up at Wynand, his eyes strangely honest and tortured, "Gail, it's no use. But we can save the pieces. Look, if we just admit that we were wrong about Cortlandt and ... and if we just take Harding back, he's a valuable man, and ... maybe Toohey ... "

"No one is to mention the name of Toohey in this discussion," said Wynand.

Mitchell Layton snapped his mouth open and dropped it shut again.

"That's it, Gail!" cried Alvah Scarret. "That's great! We can bargain and make them an offer. We'll reverse our policy on Cortlandt — that, we've got to, not for the damn Union, but we've got to rebuild circulation, Gail — so we'll offer them that and we'll take Harding, Alien and Falk, but not To ... not Ellsworth. We give in and they give in. Saves everybody's face. Is that it, Gail?"

Wynand said nothing.

"I think that's it, Mr. Scarret," said the banker. "I think that's the solution. After all, Mr. Wynand must be allowed to maintain his prestige. We can sacrifice ... a columnist and keep peace among ourselves."

"I don't see it!" yelled Mitchell Layton. "I don't see it at all! Why should we sacrifice Mr ... a great liberal, just because ... "

"I stand with Mr. Scarret," said the man who had spoken of Senators, and the voices of the others seconded him, and the man who had criticized the editorials said suddenly, in the general noise: "I think Gail Wynand was a hell of a swell boss after all!" There was something about Mitchell Layton which he didn't want to see. Now he looked at Wynand, for protection. Wynand did not notice him.

"Gail?" asked Scarret. "Gail, what do you say?" There was no answer.

"God damn it, Wynand, it's now or never! This can't go on!"

"Make up your mind or get out!"

"I'll buy you out!" shrieked Layton. "Want to sell? Want to sell and get the hell out of it?"

"For God's sake, Wynand, don't be a fool!"

"Gail, it's the Banner ... " whispered Scarret. "It's our Banner ... "

"We'll stand by you, Gail, we'll all chip in, we'll pull the old paper back on its feet, we'll do as you say, you'll be the boss — but for God's sake, act like a boss now!"

"Quiet, gentlemen, quiet! Wynand, this is final: we switch policy on Cortlandt, we take Harding, Alien and Falk back, and we save the wreck. Yes or no?"

There was no answer.

"Wynand, you know it's that — or you have to close the Banner. You can't keep this up, even if you bought us all out. Give in or close the Banner. You had better give in."

Wynand heard that. He had heard it through all the speeches. He had heard it for days before the meeting. He knew it better than any man present. Close the Banner.

He saw a single picture: the new masthead rising over the door of the Gazette.