"Hello, Howard," said Peter Keating.
He opened his eyes. Keating had entered and stood before him, smiling. He wore a light tan spring coat, thrown open, the loops of its belt like handles at his sides, a blue cornflower in his buttonhole. He stood, his legs apart, his fists on his hips, his hat on the back of his head, his black curls so bright and crisp over his pale forehead that one expected to see drops of spring dew glistening on them as on the cornflower.
"Hello, Peter," said Roark.
Keating sat down comfortably, took his hat off, dropped it in the middle of the desk, and clasped one hand over each knee with a brisk little slap.
"Well, Howard, things are happening, aren't they?"
"Congratulations."
"Thanks. What's the matter, Howard? You look like hell. Surely, you're not overworking yourself, from what I hear?"
This was not the manner he had intended to assume. He had planned the interview to be smooth and friendly. Well, he decided, he'd switch back to that later. But first he had to show that he was not afraid of Roark, that he'd never be afraid again.
"No, I'm not overworking."
"Look, Howard, why don't you drop it?"
That was something he had not intended saying at all. His mouth remained open a little, in astonishment.
"Drop what?"
"The pose. Oh, the ideals, if you prefer. Why don't you come down to earth? Why don't you start working like everybody else? Why don't you stop being a damn fool?" He felt himself rolling down a hill, without brakes. He could not stop.
"What's the matter, Peter?"
"How do you expect to get along in the world? You have to live with people, you know. There are only two ways. You can join them or you can fight them. But you don't seem to be doing either."
"No. Not either."
"And people don't want you. They don't want you! Aren't you afraid?"
"No."
"You haven't worked for a year. And you won't. Who'll ever give you work? You might have a few hundreds left — and then it's the end."
"That's wrong, Peter. I have fourteen dollars left, and fifty-seven cents."
"Well? And look at me! I don't care if it's crude to say that myself. That's not the point. I'm not boasting. It doesn't matter who says it. But look at me! Remember how we started? Then look at us now. And then think that it's up to you. Just drop that fool delusion that you're better than everybody else — and go to work. In a year, you'll have an office that'll make you blush to think of this dump. You'll have people running after you, you'll have clients, you'll have friends, you'll have an army of draftsmen to order around! ... Hell! Howard, it's nothing to me — what can it mean to me? — but this time I'm not fishing for anything for myself, in fact I know that you'd make a dangerous competitor, but I've got to say this to you. Just think, Howard, think of it! You'll be rich, you'll be famous, you'll be respected, you'll be praised, you'll be admired — you'll be one of us! ... Well? ... Say something! Why don't you say something?"
He saw that Roark's eyes were not empty and scornful, but attentive and wondering. It was close to some sort of surrender for Roark, because he had not dropped the iron sheet in his eyes, because he allowed his eyes to be puzzled and curious — and almost helpless.
"Look, Peter. I believe you. I know that you have nothing to gain by saying this. I know more than that. I know that you don't want me to succeed — it's all right, I'm not reproaching you, I've always known it — you don't want me ever to reach these things you're offering me. And yet you're pushing me on to reach them, quite sincerely. And you know that if I take your advice, I'll reach them. And it's not love for me, because that wouldn't make you so angry — and so frightened ... Peter, what is it that disturbs you about me as I am?"
"I don't know ... " whispered Rearing.
He understood that it was a confession, that answer of his, and a terrifying one. He did not know the nature of what he had confessed and he felt certain that Roark did not know it either. But the thing had been bared; they could not grasp it, but they felt its shape. And it made them sit silently, facing each other, in astonishment, in resignation.
"Pull yourself together, Peter," said Roark gently, as to a comrade. "We'll never speak of that again."
Then Keating said suddenly, his voice clinging in relief to the bright vulgarity of its new tone:
"Aw hell, Howard, I was only talking good plain horse sense. Now if you wanted to work like a normal person — "
"Shut up!" snapped Roark.
Keating leaned back, exhausted. He had nothing else to say. He had forgotten what he had come here to discuss.
"Now," said Roark, "what did you want to tell me about the competition?"
Keating jerked forward. He wondered what had made Roark guess that. And then it became easier, because he forgot the rest in a sweeping surge of resentment.
"Oh, yes!" said Keating crisply, a bright edge of irritation in the sound of his voice. "Yes, I did want to speak to you about that. Thanks for reminding me. Of course, you'd guess it, because you know that I'm not an ungrateful swine. I really came here to thank you, Howard. I haven't forgotten that you had a share in that building, you did give me some advice on it. I'd be the first one to give you part of the credit."
"That's not necessary."
"Oh, it's not that I'd mind, but I'm sure you wouldn't want me to say anything about it. And I'm sure you don't want to say anything yourself, because you know how it is, people are so funny, they misinterpret everything in such a stupid way ... But since I'm getting part of the award money, I thought it's only fair to let you have some of it. I'm glad that it comes at a time when you need it so badly."
He produced his billfold, pulled from it a check he had made out in advance and put it down on the desk. It read: "Pay to the order of Howard Roark — the sum of five hundred dollars."
"Thank you, Peter," said Roark, taking the check.
Then he turned it over, took his fountain pen, wrote on the back: "Pay to the order of Peter Keating," signed and handed the check to Keating.
"And here's my bribe to you, Peter," he said. "For the same purpose. To keep your mouth shut."
Keating stared at him blankly.
"That's all I can offer you now," said Roark. "You can't extort anything from me at present, but later, when I'll have money, I'd like to ask you please not to blackmail me. I'm telling you frankly that you could. Because I don't want anyone to know that I had anything to do with that building."
He laughed at the slow look of comprehension on Keating's face.
"No?" said Roark. "You don't want to blackmail me on that? ... Go home, Peter. You're perfectly safe. I'll never say a word about it. It's yours, the building and every girder of it and every foot of plumbing and every picture of your face in the papers."
Then Keating jumped to his feet. He was shaking.
"God damn you!" he screamed. "God damn you! Who do you think you are? Who told you that you could do this to people? So you're too good for that building? You want to make me ashamed of it? You rotten, lousy, conceited bastard! Who are you? You don't even have the wits to know that you're a flop, an incompetent, a beggar, a failure, a failure, a failure! And you stand there pronouncing judgment! You, against the whole country! You against everybody! Why should I listen to you? You can't frighten me. You can't touch me. I have the whole world with me! ... Don't stare at me like that! I've always hated you! You didn't know that, did you? I've always hated you! I always will! I'll break you some day, I swear I will, if it's the last thing I do!"