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Itwasadangerousjobthathadtakenmanylives;ithadbeenabolishedyearsearlierbytheinventionofthehydraulicgun;buttherehadbeenstruggling,failingmillswhich,ontheirwaydown,hadattemptedtousetheoutwornequipmentandmethodsofadistantpast.Reardenhaddonethejob;butintheyearssince,hehadmetnoothermanabletodoit.Inthemidstofshootingjetsoflivesteam,inthefaceofacrumblingblastfurnace,hewasnowseeingthetall,slimfigureoftheplayboyperformingthetaskwiththeskillofanexpert.
IttookaninstantforReardentotearoffhiscoat,seizeapairofgogglesfromthefirstmaninsightandjoinFranciscoatthemouthofthefurnace.Therewasnotimetospeak,tofeelortowonder.Franciscoglancedathimonce—andwhatReardensawwasasmudgedface,blackgogglesandawidegrin.
Theystoodonaslipperybankofbakedmud,attheedgeofthewhitestream,withtheragingholeundertheirfeet,flingingclayintotheglarewherethetwistingtonguesthatlookedlikegaswereboilingmetal.Rearden’sconsciousnessbecameaprogressionofbending,raisingtheweight,aimingandsendingitdownand,beforeithadreacheditsunseendestination,bendingforthenextoneagain,aconsciousnessdrawntightuponwatchingtheaimofhisarm,tosavethefurnace,andtheprecariouspostureofhisfeet,tosavehimself.
