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           "

           "Uh?"

           "Wedon’ttakechancesorgivethem."

           "I’maskingyoutogivemeajob!"

           "WhyshouldI?"

           "BecauseIneedit!"

           Reardenpointedtotheredspurtsofflameshootingfromtheblackshapeofafurnace,shootingsafelyintospacefourhundredfeetofsteel-clay-and-steam-embodiedthoughtabovethem."Ineededthatfurnace,Philip."Itwasn’tmyneedthatgaveittome."

           Philip’sfaceassumedalookofnothavingheard."You’renotofficiallysupposedtohireanybody,butthat’sjustatechnicality,ifyou’llputmeon,myfriendswillokayitwithoutanytroubleand—"SomethingaboutRearden’seyesmadehimstopabruptly,thenaskinanangrilyimpatientvoice,"Well,what’sthematter?WhathaveIsaidthat’swrong?"

           "Whatyouhaven’tsaid."

           "Ibegyourpardon?"

           "Whatyou’resquirmingtoleaveunmentioned."

           "What?"

           "Thatyou’dbeofnousetomewhatever."

           "Isthatwhatyou—"Philipstartedwithautomaticrighteousness,butstoppedanddidnotfinish.

           "Yes,"saidRearden,smiling,"that’swhatIthinkoffirst."

           Philip’seyesoozedaway;whenhespoke,hisvoicesoundedasifitweredartingaboutatrandom,pickingstraysentences:"Everybodyisentitledtoalivelihood...