Atlas Shrugged (68 page)

“Do not expect consistency. Everything is a contradiction of everything else. Nothing exists but contradictions.”

“Do not look for ‘common sense.’ To demand ‘sense’ is the hallmark of nonsense. Nature does not make sense. Nothing makes sense. The only crusaders for ’sense’ are the studious type of adolescent old maid who can’t find a boy friend, and the old-fashioned shopkeeper who thinks that the universe is as simple as his neat little inventory and beloved cash register.”

“Let us break the chains of the prejudice called Logic. Are we going to be stopped by a syllogism?”

“So you think you’re sure of your opinions? You cannot be sure of anything. Are you going to endanger the harmony of your community, your fellowship with your neighbors, your standing, reputation, good name and financial security—for the sake of an illusion? For the sake of the mirage of thinking that you think? Are you going to run risks and court disasters—at a precarious time like ours—by opposing the existing social order in the name of those imaginary notions of yours which you call your convictions? You say that you’re sure you’re right? Nobody is right, or ever can be. You feel that the world around you is wrong? You have no means to know it. Everything is wrong in human eyes—so why fight it? Don’t argue. Accept. Adjust yourself. Obey.”

The book was written by Dr. Floyd Ferris and published by the State Science Institute.

“I had nothing to do with it!” said Dr. Robert Stadler. He stood still by the side of his desk, with the uncomfortable feeling of having missed some beat of time, of not knowing how long the preceding moment had lasted. He had pronounced the words aloud, in a tone of rancorous sarcasm directed at whoever had made him say it.

He shrugged. Resting on the belief that self-mockery is an act of virtue, the shrug was the emotional equivalent of the sentence: You’re Robert Stadler, don’t act like a high-school neurotic. He sat down at his desk and pushed the book aside with the back of his hand.

Dr. Floyd Ferris arrived half an hour late. “Sorry,” he said, “but my car broke down again on the way from Washington and I had a hell of a time trying to find somebody to fix it—there’s getting to be so damn few cars out on the road that half the service stations are closed.”

There was more annoyance than apology in his voice. He sat down without waiting for an invitation to do so.

Dr. Floyd Ferris would not have been noticed as particularly handsome in any other profession, but in the one he had chosen he was always described as “that good-looking scientist.” He was six feet tall and forty-five years old, but he managed to look taller and younger. He had an air of immaculate grooming and a ballroom grace of motion, but his clothes were severe, his suits being usually black or midnight blue. He had a finely traced mustache, and his smooth black hair made the Institute office boys say that he used the same shoe polish on both ends of him. He did not mind repeating, in the tone of a joke on himself, that a movie producer once said he would cast him for the part of a titled European gigolo. He had begun his career as a biologist, but that was forgotten long ago; he was famous as the Top Co-ordinator of the State Science Institute.

Dr. Stadler glanced at him with astonishment—the lack of apology was unprecedented—and said dryly, “It seems to me that you are spending a great deal of your time in Washington.”

“But, Dr. Stadler, wasn’t it you who once paid me the compliment of calling me the watchdog of this Institute?” said Dr. Ferris pleasantly. “Isn’t that my most essential duty?”

“A few of your duties seem to be accumulating right around this place. Before I forget it, would you mind telling me what’s going on here about that oil shortage mess?”

He could not understand why Dr. Ferris’ face tightened into an injured look. “You will permit me to say that this is unexpected and unwarranted,” said Dr. Ferris in that tone of formality which conceals pain and reveals martyrdom. “None of the authorities involved have found cause for criticism. We have just submitted a detailed report on the progress of the work to date to the Bureau of Economic Planning and National Resources, and Mr. Wesley Mouch has expressed himself as satisfied. We have done our best on that project. We have heard no one else describe it as a mess. Considering the difficulties of the terrain, the hazards of the fire and the fact that it has been only six months since we—”

“What are you talking about?” asked Dr. Stadler.

“The Wyatt Reclamation Project. Isn’t that what you asked me?”

“No,” said Dr. Stadler, “no, I ... Wait a moment. Let me get this straight. I seem to recall something about this Institute taking charge of a reclamation project. What is it that you’re reclaiming?”

“Oil,” said Dr. Ferris. “The Wyatt oil fields.”

“That was a fire, wasn’t it? In Colorado? That was ... wait a moment ... that was the man who set fire to his own oil wells.”

“I’m inclined to believe that that’s a rumor created by public hysteria,” said Dr. Ferris dryly. “A rumor with some undesirable, unpatriotic implications. I wouldn’t put too much faith in those newspaper stories. Personally, I believe that it was an accident and that Ellis Wyatt perished in the fire.”

“Well, who owns those fields now?”

“Nobody—at the moment. There being no will or heirs, the government has taken charge of operating the fields—as a measure of public necessity—for seven years. If Ellis Wyatt does not return within that time, he will be considered officially dead.”

“Well, why did they come to you—to us, for such an unlikely assignment as oil pumping?”

“Because it is a problem of great technological difficulty, requiring the services of the best scientific talent available. You see, it is a matter of reconstructing the special method of oil extraction that Wyatt had employed. His equipment is still there, though in a dreadful condition; some of his processes are known, but somehow there is no full record of the complete operation or the basic principle involved. That is what we have to rediscover.”

“And how is it going?”

“The progress is most gratifying. We have just been granted a new and larger appropriation. Mr. Wesley Mouch is pleased with our work. So are Mr. Balch of the Emergency Commission, Mr. Anderson of Crucial Supplies and Mr. Pettibone of Consumers’ Protection. I do not see what more could be expected of us. The project is fully successful.”

“Have you produced any oil?”

“No, but we have succeeded in forcing a flow from one of the wells, to the extent of six and a half gallons. This, of course, is merely of experimental significance, but you must take into consideration the fact that we had to spend three full months just to put out the fire, which has now been totally—almost totally—extinguished. We have a much tougher problem than Wyatt ever had, because he started from scratch while we have to deal with the disfigured wreckage of an act of vicious, anti-social sabotage which ... I mean to say, it is a difficult problem, but there is no doubt that we will be able to solve it.”

“Well, what I really asked you about was the oil shortage here, in the Institute. The level of temperature maintained in this building all winter was outrageous. They told me that they had to conserve oil. Surely you could have seen to it that the matter of keeping this place adequately supplied with such things as oil was handled more efficiently.”

“Oh, is that what you had in mind, Dr. Stadler? Oh, but I am so sorry!” The words came with a bright smile of relief on Dr. Ferris’ face; his solicitous manner returned. “Do you mean that the temperature was low enough to cause you discomfort?”

“I mean that I nearly froze to death.”

“But that is unforgivable! Why didn’t they tell me? Please accept my personal apology, Dr. Stadler, and rest assured that you will never be inconvenienced again. The only excuse I can offer for our maintenance department is that the shortage of fuel was not due to their negligence, it was—oh, I realize that you would not know about it and such matters should not take up your invaluable attention—but, you see, the oil shortage last winter was a nation-wide crisis.”

“Why? For heaven’s sake, don’t tell me that those Wyatt fields were the only source of oil in the country!”

“No, no, but the sudden disappearance of a major supply wrought havoc in the entire oil market. So the government had to assume control and impose oil rationing on the country, in order to protect the essential enterprises. I did obtain an unusually large quota for the Institute—and only by the special favor of some very special connections—but I feel abjectly guilty if this proved insufficient. Rest assured that it will not happen again. It is only a temporary emergency. By next winter, we shall have the Wyatt fields back in production, and conditions will return to normal. Besides, as far as this Institute is concerned, I made all the arrangements to convert our furnaces to coal, and it was to be done next month, only the Stockton Foundry in Colorado closed down suddenly, without notice—they were casting parts for our furnaces, but Andrew Stockton retired, quite unexpectedly, and now we have to wait till his nephew reopens the plant.”

“I see. Well, I trust that you will take care of it among all your other activities.” Dr. Stadler shrugged with annoyance. “It is becoming a little ridiculous—the number of technological ventures that an institution of science has to handle for the government.”

“But, Dr. Stadler—”

“I know, I know, it can’t be avoided. By the way, what is Project X?”

Dr. Ferris’ eyes shot to him swiftly—an odd, bright glance of alertness, that seemed startled, but not frightened. “Where did you hear about Project X, Dr. Stadler?”

“Oh, I heard a couple of your younger boys saying something about it with an air of mystery you’d expect from amateur detectives. They told me it was something very secret.”

“That’s right, Dr. Stadler. It is an extremely secret research project which the government has entrusted to us. And it is of utmost importance that the newspapers get no word about it.”

“What’s the X?”

“Xylophone. Project Xylophone. That is a code name, of course. The work has to do with sound. But I am sure that it would not interest you. It is a purely technological undertaking.”

“Yes, do spare me the story. I have no time for your technological undertakings.”

“May I suggest that it would be advisable to refrain from mentioning the words ‘Project X’ to anyone, Dr. Stadler?”

“Oh, all right, all right. I must say I do not enjoy discussions of that kind.”

“But of course! And I wouldn’t forgive myself if I allowed your time to be taken up by such concerns. Please feel certain that you may safely leave it to me.” He made a movement to rise. “Now if this was the reason you wanted to see me, please believe that I—”

“No,” said Dr. Stadler slowly. “This was not the reason I wanted to see you.”

Dr. Ferris volunteered no questions, no eager offers of service; he remained seated, merely waiting.

Dr. Stadler reached over and made the book slide from the corner to the center of his desk, with a contemptuous flick of one hand. “Will you tell me, please,” he asked, “what is this piece of indecency?”

Dr. Ferris did not glance at the book, but kept his eyes fixed on Stadler’s for an inexplicable moment; then he leaned back and said with an odd smile, “I feel honored that you chose to make such an exception for my sake as reading a popular book. This little piece has sold twenty thousand copies in two weeks.”

“I have read it.”

“And?”

“I expect an explanation.”

“Did you find the text confusing?”

Dr. Stadler looked at him in bewilderment. “Do you realize what theme you chose to treat and in what manner? The style alone, the style, the gutter kind of attitude—for a subject of this nature!”

“Do you think, then, that the content deserved a more dignified form of presentation?” The voice was so innocently smooth that Dr. Stadler could not decide whether this was mockery.

“Do you realize what you’re preaching in this book?”

“Since you do not seem to approve of it, Dr. Stadler, I’d rather have you think that I wrote it innocently.”

This was it, thought Dr. Stadler, this was the incomprehensible element in Ferris’ manner: he had supposed that an indication of his disapproval would be sufficient, but Ferris seemed to remain untouched by it.

“If a drunken lout could find the power to express himself on paper,” said Dr. Stadler, “if he could give voice to his essence—the eternal savage, leering his hatred of the mind—this is the sort of book I would expect him to write. But to see it come from a scientist, under the imprint of this Institute!”

“But, Dr. Stadler, this book was not intended to be read by scientists. It was written for that drunken lout.”

“What do you mean?”

“For the general public.”

“But, good God! The feeblest imbecile should be able to see the glaring contradictions in every one of your statements.”

“Let us put it this way, Dr. Stadler: the man who doesn’t see that, deserves to believe all my statements.”

“But you’ve given the prestige of science to that unspeakable stuff! It was all right for a disreputable mediocrity like Simon Pritchett to drool it as some sort of woozy mysticism—nobody listened to him. But you’ve made them think it’s science.
Science!
You’ve taken the achievements of the mind to destroy the mind. By what right did you use
my
work to make an unwarranted, preposterous switch into another field, pull an inapplicable metaphor and draw a monstrous generalization out of what is merely a mathematical problem? By what right did you make it sound as if I—
I!
—gave my sanction to that book?”

Dr. Ferris did nothing, he merely looked at Dr. Stadler calmly; but the calm gave him an air that was almost patronizing. “Now, you see, Dr. Stadler, you’re speaking as if this book were addressed to a thinking audience. If it were, one would have to be concerned with such matters as accuracy, validity, logic and the prestige of science. But it isn’t. It’s addressed to the public. And you have always been first to believe that the public does not think.” He paused, but Dr. Stadler said nothing. “This book may have no philosophical value whatever, but it has a great psychological value.”