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part of the frame still hung naked, an intercrossed cage of steel. Glass and
masonry had followed its rise, covering the rest of the long streak slashed
through space.
She thought: They say the heart of the earth is made of fire. It is held
imprisoned and silent. But at times it breaks through the clay, the iron, the
granite, and shoots out to freedom. Then it becomes a thing like this.
She walked to the building. A wooden fence surrounded its lower stories. The
fence was bright with large signs advertising the names of the firms who had
supplied materials for the tallest structure in the world. "Steel by National
Steel, Inc." "Glass by Ludlow." "Electrical Equipment by Wells-Clairmont."
"Elevators by Kessler, Inc." "Nash & Dunning, Contractors."
She stopped. She saw an object she had never noticed before. The sight was like
the touch of a hand on her forehead, the hand of those figures in legend who had
the power to heal. She had not known Henry Cameron and she had not heard him say
it, but what she felt now was as if she were hearing it: "And I know that if you
carry these words through to the end, it will be a victory, Howard, not just for
you, but for something that should win, that moves the world--and never wins
acknowledgment. It will vindicate so many who have fallen before you, who have
suffered as you will suffer."
She saw, on the fence surrounding New York’s greatest building, a small tin
plate bearing the words:
"Howard Roark, Architect"
She walked to the superintendent’s shed. She had come here often to call for
Roark, to watch the progress of construction. But there was a new man in the
shed who did not know her. She asked for Roark.
"Mr. Roark is way up on top by the water tank. Who’s calling, ma’am?"
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"Mrs. Roark," she answered.
The man found the superintendent who let her ride the outside hoist, as she
always did--a few planks with a rope for a railing, that rose up the side of the
building.
She stood, her hand lifted and closed about a cable, her high heels poised
firmly on the planks. The planks shuddered, a current of air pressed her skirt
to her body, and she saw the ground dropping softly away from her.
She rose above the broad panes of shop windows. The channels of streets grew
deeper, sinking. She rose above the marquees of movie theaters, black mats held
by spirals of color. Office windows streamed past her, long belts of glass
running down. The squat hulks of warehouses vanished, sinking with the treasures
they guarded. Hotel towers slanted, like the spokes of an opening fan, and
folded over. The fuming matchsticks were factory stacks and the moving gray
squares were cars. The sun made lighthouses of peaked summits, they reeled,
flashing long white rays over the city. The city spread out, marching in angular
rows to the rivers. It stood held between two thin black arms of water. It
leaped across and rolled away to a haze of plains and sky.
Flat roofs descended like pedals pressing the buildings down, out of the way of
her flight. She went past the cubes of glass that held dining rooms, bedrooms
and nurseries. She saw roof gardens float down like handkerchiefs spread on the
wind. Skyscrapers raced her and were left behind. The planks under her feet shot
past the antennae of radio stations.
The hoist swung like a pendulum above the city. It sped against the side of the
building. It had passed the line where the masonry ended behind her. There was
nothing behind her now but steel ligaments and space. She felt the height
pressing against her eardrums. The sun filled her eyes. The air beat against her
raised chin.
She saw him standing above her, on the top platform of the Wynand Building. He
waved to her.
The line of the ocean cut the sky. The ocean mounted as the city descended. She
passed the pinnacles of bank buildings. She passed the crowns of courthouses.
She rose above the spires of churches.
Then there was only the ocean and the sky and the figure of Howard Roark.
The End
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