"My dear Peter, did you think I had to wait to learn it from you?"
"Well, how do you like that?"
"Why should it concern me one way or another?"
"Have you heard that Roark and Wynand are the best of friends? And what friendship, from what I hear! Well? You know what Wynand can do. You know what he can make of Roark. Try and stop Roark now! Try and stop him! Try ... "
He choked on a gulp and kept still. He found himself staring at Toohey's bare ankle between the pyjama trouser and the rich fur of a sheepskin-lined slipper. He had never visualized Toohey's nudity; somehow, he had never thought of Toohey as possessing a physical body. There was something faintly indecent about that ankle: Just skin, too bluish-white, stretched over bones that looked too brittle. It made him think of chicken bones left on a plate after dinner, dried out; if one touches them, it takes no effort at all, they just snap. He found himself wishing to reach out, to take that ankle between thumb and forefinger, and just twist the pads of his fingertips.
"Ellsworth, I came here to talk about Cortlandt Homes!" He could not take his eyes off the ankle. He hoped the words would release him.
"Don't shout like that. What's the matter? ... Cortlandt Homes? Well, what did you want to say about it?"
He had to lift his eyes now, in astonishment. Toohey waited innocently.
"I want to design Cortlandt Homes," he said, his voice coming like a paste strained through a cloth. "I want you to give it to me."
"Why should I give it to you?"
There was no answer. If he were to say now: Because you've written that I'm the greatest architect living, the reminder would prove that Toohey believed it no longer. He dared not face such proof, nor Toohey's possible reply. He was staring at two long black hairs on the bluish knob of Toohey's ankle; he could see them quite clearly; one straight, the other twisted into a curlicue. After a long time, he answered:
"Because I need it very badly, Ellsworth."
"I know you do."
There was nothing further to say. Toohey shifted his ankle, raised his foot and put it flat upon the arm of the couch, spreading his legs comfortably.
"Sit up, Peter. You look like a gargoyle."
Keating did not move.
"What made you assume that the selection of an architect for Cortlandt Homes was up to me?"
Keating raised his head; it was a stab of relief. He had presumed too much and offended Toohey; that was the reason; that was the only reason.
"Why, I understand ... it's being said ... I was told that you have a great deal of influence on this particular project ... with those people ... and in Washington ... and places ... "
"Strictly in an unofficial capacity. As something of an expert in architectural matters. Nothing else."
"Yes, of course ... That's ... what I meant."
"I can recommend an architect. That's all. I can guarantee nothing. My word is not final."
"That's all I wanted, Ellsworth. A word of recommendation from you ... "
"But, Peter, if I recommend someone, I must give a reason. I can't use such influence as I might have, just to push a friend, can I?"
Keating stared at the dressing gown, thinking: powder puffs, why powder puffs? That's what's wrong with me, if he'd only take the thing off.
"Your professional standing is not what it used to be, Peter."
"You said to 'push a friend,' Ellsworth ... " It was a whisper.
"Well, of course I'm your friend. I've always been your friend. You're not doubting that, are you?"
"No ... I can't, Ellsworth ... "
"Well, cheer up, then. Look, I'll tell you the truth. We're stuck on that damn Cortlandt. There's a nasty little sticker involved. I've tried to get it for Gordon Prescott and Gus Webb — I thought it was more in their line, I didn't think you'd be so interested. But neither of them could make the grade. Do you know the big problem in housing? Economy, Peter. How to design a decent modern unit that could rent for fifteen dollars a month. Ever tried to figure out that one? Well, that's what's expected of the architect who'll do Cortlandt — if they ever find him. Of course, tenant selection helps, they stagger the rents, the families who make twelve hundred a year pay more for the same apartment to help carry the families who make six hundred a year — you know, underdog milked to help somebody underdoggier — but still, the cost of the building and the upkeep must be as low as humanly possible. The boys in Washington don't want another one of those — you heard about it, a little government development where the homes cost ten thousand dollars apiece, while a private builder could have put them up for two thousand. Cortlandt is to be a model project. An example for the whole world. It must be the most brilliant, the most efficient exhibit of planning ingenuity and structural economy ever achieved anywhere. That's what the big boys demand. Gordon and Gus couldn't do it. They tried and were turned down. You'd be surprised to know how many people have tried. Peter, I couldn't sell you to them even at the height of your career. What can I tell them about you? All you stand for is plush, gilt and marble, old Guy Francon, the Cosmo-Slotnick Building, the Frink National Bank, and that little abortion of the Centuries that will never pay for itself. What they want is a millionaire's kitchen for a sharecropper's income. Think you can do it?"
"I ... I have ideas, Ellsworth. I've watched the field ... I've ... studied new methods ... I could ... "
"If you can, it's yours. If you can't, all my friendship won't help you. And God knows I'd like to help you. You look like an old hen in the rain. Here's what I'll do for you, Peter: come to my office tomorrow, I'll give you all the dope, take it home and see if you wish to break your head over it. Take a chance, if you care to. Work me out a preliminary scheme. I can't promise anything. But if you come anywhere near it, I'll submit it to the right people and I'll push it for all I'm worth. That's all I can do for you. It's not up to me. It's really up to you."
Keating sat looking at him. Keating's eyes were anxious, eager and hopeless.
"Care to try, Peter?"
"Will you let me try?"
"Of course I'll let you. Why shouldn't I? I'd be delighted if you, of all people, turned out to be the one to turn the trick."
"About the way I look, Ellsworth," he said suddenly, "about the way I look ... it's not because I mind so much that I'm a failure ... it's because I can't understand why I slipped like that ... from the top ... without any reason at all ... "
"Well, Peter, that could be terrifying to contemplate. The inexplicable is always terrifying. But it wouldn't be so frightening if you stopped to ask yourself whether there's ever been any reason why you should have been at the top ... Oh, come, Peter, smile, I'm only kidding. One loses everything when one loses one's sense of humor."
On the following morning Keating came to his office after a visit to Ellsworth Toohey's cubbyhole in the Banner Building. He brought with him a briefcase containing the data on the Cortlandt Homes project. He spread the papers on a large table in his office and locked the door. He asked a draftsman to bring him a sandwich at noon, and he ordered another sandwich at dinner time. "Want me to help, Pete?" asked Neil Dumont. "We could consult and discuss it and ... " Keating shook his head.
He sat at his table all night. After a while he stopped looking at the papers; he sat still, thinking. He was not thinking of the charts and figures spread before him. He had studied them. He had understood what he could not do.
When he noticed that it was daylight, when he heard steps behind his locked door, the movement of men returning to work, and knew that office hours had begun, here and everywhere else in the city — he rose, walked to his desk and reached for the telephone book. He dialed the number.
"This is Peter Keating speaking. I should like to make an appointment to see Mr. Roark."