"And you were?"
"No. Not in any way that counts."
"You don't mind looking back? At anything?"
"No."
"I do. There was one night. I was beaten and I crawled to a door — I remember the pavement — it was right under my nostrils — I can still see it — there were veins in the stone and white spots — I had to make sure that that pavement moved — I couldn't feel whether I was moving or not — but I could tell by the pavement — I had to see that those veins and spots changed — I had to reach the next pattern or the crack six inches away — it took a long time — and I knew it was blood under my stomach ... "
His voice had no tone of self-pity; it was simple, impersonal, with a faint sound of wonder. Roark said: "I'd like to help you."
Wynand smiled slowly, not gaily. "I believe you could. I even believe that it would be proper. Two days ago I would have murdered anyone who'd think of me as an object for help ... You know, of course, that that night's not what I hate in my past. Not what I dread to look back on. It was only the least offensive to mention. The other things can't be talked about."
"I know. I meant the other things."
"What are they? You name them."
"The Stoddard Temple."
"You want to help me with that?"
"Yes."
"You're a damn fool. Don't you realize ... "
"Don't you realize I'm doing it already?"
"How?"
"By building this house for you."
Roark saw the slanting ridges on Wynand's forehead. Wynand's eyes seemed whiter than usual, as if the blue had ebbed from the iris, two white ovals, luminous on his face. He said:
"And getting a fat commission check for it."
He saw Roark's smile, suppressed before it appeared fully. The smile would have said that this sudden insult was a declaration of surrender, more eloquent than the speeches of confidence; the suppression said that Roark would not help him over this particular moment.
"Why, of course," said Roark calmly.
Wynand got up. "Let's go. We're wasting time. I have more important things to do at the office."
They did not speak on their way back to the city. Wynand drove his car at ninety miles an hour. The speed made two solid walls of blurred motion on the sides of the road; as if they were flying down a long, closed, silent corridor.
He stopped at the entrance to the Cord Building and let Roark out. He said:
"You're free to go back to that site as often as you wish, Mr. Roark. I don't have to go with you. You can get the surveys and all the information you need from my office. Please do not call on me again until it is necessary. I shall be very busy. Let me know when the first drawings are ready."
When the drawings were ready, Roark telephoned Wynand's office. He had not spoken to Wynand for a month. "Please hold the wire, Mr. Roark," said Wynand's secretary. He waited. The secretary's voice came back and informed him that Mr. Wynand wished the drawings brought to his office that afternoon; she gave the hour, Wynand would not answer in person.
When Roark entered the office, Wynand said: "How do you do, Mr. Roark," his voice gracious and formal. No memory of intimacy remained on his blank, courteous face.
Roark handed him the plans of the house and a large perspective drawing. Wynand studied each sheet. He held the drawing for a long time. Then he looked up.
"I am very much impressed, Mr. Roark." The voice was offensively correct. "I have been quite impressed by you from the first. I have thought it over and I want to make a special deal with you."
His glance was directed at Roark with a soft emphasis, almost with tenderness; as if he were showing that he wished to treat Roark cautiously, to spare him intact for a purpose of his own. He lifted the sketch and held it up between two fingers, letting all the light hit it straight on; the white sheet glowed as a reflector for a moment, pushing the black pencil lines eloquently forward.
"You want to see this house erected?" Wynand asked softly. "You want it very much?"
"Yes," said Roark.
Wynand did not move his hand, only parted his fingers and let the cardboard drop face down on the desk.
"It will be erected, Mr. Roark. Just as you designed it. Just as it stands on this sketch. On one condition."
Roark sat leaning back, his hands in his pockets, attentive, waiting.
"You don't want to ask me what condition, Mr. Roark? Very well, I'll tell you. I shall accept this house on condition that you accept the deal I offer you. I wish to sign a contract whereby you will be sole architect for any building I undertake to erect in the future. As you realize, this would be quite an assignment. I venture to say I control more structural work than any other single person in the country. Every man in your profession has wanted to be known as my exclusive architect. I am offering it to you. In exchange, you will have to submit yourself to certain conditions. Before I name them, I'd like to point out some of the consequences, should you refuse. As you may have heard, I do not like to be refused. The power I hold can work two ways. It would be easy for me to arrange that no commission be available to you anywhere in this country. You have a small following of your own, but no prospective employer can withstand the kind of pressure I am in a position to exert. You have gone through wasted periods of your life before. They were nothing, compared to the blockade I can impose. You might have to go back to a granite quarry — oh yes, I know about that, summer of 1928, the Francon quarry in Connecticut — how? — private detectives, Mr. Roark — you might have to go back to a granite quarry, only I shall see to it that the quarries also will be closed to you. Now I'll tell you what I want of you."
In all the gossip about Gail Wynand, no one had ever mentioned the expression of his face as it was in this moment. The few men who had seen it did not talk about it. Of these men, Dwight Carson had been the first. Wynand's lips were parted, his eyes brilliant. It was an expression of sensual pleasure derived from agony — the agony of his victim or his own, or both.
"I want you to design all my future commercial structures — as the public wishes commercial structures to be designed. You'll build Colonial houses, Rococo hotels and semi-Grecian office buildings. You'll exercise your matchless ingenuity within forms chosen by the taste of the people — and you'll make money for me. You'll take your spectacular talent and make it obedient Originality and subservience together. They call it harmony. You'll create in your sphere what the Banner is in mine. Do you think it took no talent to create the Banner? Such will be your future career. But the house you've designed for me shall be erected as you designed it. It will be the last Roark building to rise on earth. Nobody will have one after mine. You've read about ancient rulers who put to death the architect of their palace, that no others might equal the glory he had given them. They killed the architect or cut his eyes out. Modern methods are different. For the rest of your life you'll obey the will of the majority. I shan't attempt to offer you any arguments. I am merely stating an alternative. You're the kind of man who can understand plain language. You have a simple choice: if you refuse, you'll never build anything again; if you accept, you'll build this house which you want so much to see erected, and a great many other houses which you won't like, but which will make money for both of us. For the rest of your life you'll design rental developments, such as Stoneridge. That is what I want."
He leaned forward, waiting for one of the reactions he knew well and enjoyed: a look of anger, or indignation, or ferocious pride.
"Why, of course," said Roark gaily. "I'll be glad to do it. That's easy."