Wyatt’s torch

           "Godhavemercyonus,ma’am!"saidtheclerkoftheHallofRecords."Nobodyknowswhoownsthatfactorynow.Iguessnobodywilleverknowit."

           Theclerksatatadeskinaground-flooroffice,wheredustlayundisturbedonthefilesandfewvisitorsevercalled.Helookedattheshiningautomobileparkedoutsidehiswindow,inthemuddysquarethathadoncebeenthecenterofaprosperouscountyseat;helookedwithafaint,wistfulwonderathistwounknownvisitors.

           "Why?"askedDagny.

           Hepointedhelplesslyatthemassofpapershehadtakenoutofthefiles."Thecourtwillhavetodecidewhoownsit,whichIdon’tthinkanycourtcando.Ifacourtevergetstoit.Idon’tthinkitwill."

           "Why?Whathappened?"

           "Well,itwassoldout—theTwentiethCentury,Imean.TheTwentiethCenturyMotorCompany.Itwassoldtwice,atthesametimeandtotwodifferentsetsofowners.Thatwassortofabigscandalatthetime,twoyearsago,andnowit’sjust"—hepointed—"justabunchofpaperlyingaround,waitingforacourthearing.Idon’tseehowanyjudgewillbeabletountangleanypropertyrightsoutofit—oranyrightatall."

           "Wouldyoutellmepleasejustwhathappened?"

           "Well,thelastlegalownerofthefactorywasThePeople’sMortgageCompany,ofRome,Wisconsin.That’sthetowntheothersideofthefactory,thirtymilesnorth.