Wynand returned to the Banner late at night. He took a cab. It did not matter. He did not notice the distance.
Dominique said, "You've seen Roark."
"Yes. How do you know?"
"Here's the Sunday makeup. It's fairly lousy, but it'll have to do. I sent Manning home for a few hours — he was going to collapse. Jackson quit, but we can do without him. Alvah's column was a mess — he can't even keep his grammar straight any more — I rewrote it, but don't tell him, tell him you did."
"Go to sleep. I'll take Manning's place. I'm good for hours."
They went on, and the days passed, and in the mailing room the piles of returns grew, running over into the corridor, white stacks of paper like marble slabs. Fewer copies of the Banner were run off with every edition, but the stacks kept growing. The days passed, days of heroic effort to put out a newspaper that came back unbought and unread.
16.
IN THE glass-smooth mahogany of the long table reserved for the board of directors there was a monogram in colored wood — G W — reproduced from his signature. It had always annoyed the directors. They had no time to notice it now. But an occasional glance fell upon it — and then it was a glance of pleasure.
The directors sat around the table. It was the first meeting in the board's history that had not been summoned by Wynand. But the meeting had convened and Wynand had come. The strike was in its second month.
Wynand stood by his chair at the head of the table. He looked like a drawing from a men's magazine, fastidiously groomed, a white handkerchief in the breast pocket of his dark suit. The directors caught themselves in peculiar thoughts: some thought of British tailors, others — of the House of Lords — of the Tower of London — of the executed English King — or was it a Chancellor? — who had died so well.
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."