The Early Ayn Rand

by Ayn Rand

  BILLY: It will start again in a minute.

  FLASH: Maybe the old-fashioned way is best. [They wait. Nothing happens] Say, Bill. What’s the matter with everybody in this house?

  BILLY: Nothing.

  FLASH: I can’t figure it out. You’re the nicest people I ever lived with. But there’s something wrong. Very wrong.

  BILLY: Skip it, Flash.

  FLASH: Now take you, for instance. That operation. You wanted it pretty badly?

  BILLY: I guess maybe I did. . . . I don’t know . . . I don’t know how it really feels to want things. I’ve been trying to learn not to.

  FLASH: Bill, what do you want most in the world?

  BILLY: I? . . . [Thinks for a moment, then:] I guess . . . I guess to get a glass of water.

  FLASH: What? Want me to get you a drink?

  BILLY: No. You don’t understand. To get a glass of water—myself. [FLASH stares at him] You see what I mean? To get thirsty and not to have to tell anybody about it, but to walk down to the kitchen, and turn the faucet, and fill a glass, and drink it. Not to need anybody, not to thank anybody, not to ask for it. To get it. Flash. You don’t know how important it is—not to need anybody.

  FLASH: But people want to help you.

  BILLY: Flash, when it’s—everything, all the time, everything I do . . . I can’t be thirsty—alone, without telling somebody. I can’t be hungry—alone. I’m not a person. I’m only something being helped. . . . If I could stand up just once—stand up on my own feet and tell them all to go to hell! Oh, Flash, I wouldn’t tell them to! But just to know that I could! Just once!

  FLASH: Well, what for, if you wouldn’t? You don’t make sense. People are very kind to you and—[There is the sound of a distant explosion in the garden] There! There it goes again! [Looks out. There is nothing but darkness] No. Guess it was a dud.

  BILLY: They’re kind to me. It’s such a horrible thing—that sort of kindness. Sometimes I want to be nasty just to have somebody snap at me. But they won’t. They don’t respect me enough to get angry. I’m not important enough to resent. I’m only something to be kind to.

  FLASH: Listen, how about that glass of water? Do you want me to get it or don’t you?

  BILLY: [His head dropping, his voice dull] Yes. Get me a glass of water.

  FLASH: Look, water’s not good for you. How about my fixing you some nice hot chocolate and a little toast?

  BILLY: Yes.

  FLASH: That’s what I said: nobody ate anything tonight. All that grand dinner going to waste. It’s a crazy house. [Turns at the door] Want the light on?

  BILLY: No. [FLASH exits Right. BILLY sits alone for a moment, without moving, his head down. INGALLS enters from the garden]

  INGALLS: Hello, Bill. What are you doing here alone in the dark? [Switches the light on] The fireworks over?

  BILLY: Something went wrong. They stopped.

  INGALLS: Oh? Where’s Walter?

  BILLY: Fixing it, I guess. He hasn’t come back. [As INGALLS turns to the stairs] Steve.

  INGALLS: Yes?

  BILLY: Steve, do you know why I like you? . . . Because you’ve never been kind to me.

  INGALLS: But I want to be kind to you, kid.

  BILLY: That’s not what I mean. You couldn’t be what . . . what I’m talking about. I mean, people who use kindness like some sort of weapon. . . . Steve! It’s a horrible weapon. I think it’s worse than poison gas. It gets in deeper, it hurts more, and there’s no gas mask to wear against it. Because people would say you’re wicked to want such a mask.

  INGALLS: Bill. Listen to me. It doesn’t matter. Even your legs and the wheelchair—it doesn’t matter, so long as you don’t let anyone into your mind. Keep your mind, Bill—keep it free and keep it your own. Don’t let anyone help you—inside. Don’t let anyone tell you what you must think. Don’t let anyone tell you what you must feel. Don’t ever let them put your soul in a wheelchair. Then you’ll be all right, no matter what they do.

  BILLY: You understand. Steve, you’re the only one who understands. [FLASH enters Right]

  FLASH: Come on, Bill. The grub’s ready. Do you want it here?

  BILLY: I’m not hungry. Take me to my room, please. I’m tired.

  FLASH: Aw, hell! After I went to all the bother—

  BILLY: Please, Flash. [FLASH starts wheeling the chair out] Good night, Steve.

  INGALLS: Good night, kid. [FLASH and BILLY exit, and we hear TONY’s voice in the next room]

  TONY’S VOICE: Going, Billy? Good night.

  BILLY’S VOICE: Good night. [TONY enters Right]

  TONY: What about the great fireworks? All over?

  INGALLS: I guess so. Billy said something went wrong.

  TONY: You didn’t watch them?

  INGALLS: No.

  TONY: I didn’t either.

  [HELEN appears at the top of the stairs. She has her hat and coat on, and carries a small suitcase. She stops short, seeing the two men below, then comes resolutely down the stairs]

  INGALLS: Helen? Where are you going?

  HELEN: Back to town.

  TONY: Now?

  HELEN: Yes.

  INGALLS: But, Helen—

  HELEN: Please don’t ask me any questions. I didn’t know that someone would still be here. I wanted to . . . I wanted not to have to talk to anyone.

  INGALLS: But what’s happened?

  HELEN: Later, Steve. Later. I’ll talk to you afterward. Tomorrow, in town, if you wish. I’ll explain. Please don’t—

  [From a distance in the garden there comes ADRIENNE’s scream—a horrified scream. They whirl to the French doors]

  INGALLS: Where’s Adrienne?

  HELEN: I don’t know. She—

  [INGALLS rushes out into the garden. TONY follows him. FLASH comes running in, Right]

  FLASH: What was that?

  HELEN: I . . . don’t . . . know. . . .

  FLASH: Miss Knowland! It’s Miss Knowland! [CURTISS enters Right]

  CURTISS: Madam! What happened!

  [INGALLS, TONY, and ADRIENNE enter from the garden.

  INGALLS is supporting ADRIENNE. She is trembling and out of breath]

  INGALLS: All right. Take it easy. Now what is it?

  ADRIENNE: It’s Walter . . . out there . . . in the garden. . . . He’s dead. [Silence, as they all look at her] It was dark . . . I couldn’t see. . . . He was lying on his face. . . . And then I ran. . . . I think he’s shot. . . . [HELEN gasps and sinks into a chair]

  INGALLS: Did you touch anything?

  ADRIENNE: No . . . no. . . .

  INGALLS: Curtiss.

  CURTISS: Yes, sir?

  INGALLS: Go down there. Stand by. Don’t touch anything. And don’t let anyone near.

  CURTISS: Yes, sir.

  ADRIENNE: [Pointing] There . . . to the left . . . down the path. . . . [CURTISS exits into the garden]

  INGALLS: Tony, take Helen to her room. Flash, go to Billy. Don’t tell him. Put him to bed.

  FLASH: Y-yes, sir.

  [Exits Right. TONY helps HELEN up the stairs and they exit, while INGALLS reaches for the telephone]

  ADRIENNE: Steve! What are you doing?

  INGALLS: [Into phone] Operator? . . .

  ADRIENNE: Steve! Wait!

  INGALLS: [Into phone] Give me District Attorney Hastings.

  ADRIENNE: No! . . . Wait! . . . Steve, I—

  INGALLS: [Into phone] Hello, Greg? Steve Ingalls speaking. From the house of Walter Breckenridge. Mr. Breckenridge has been—[ADRIENNE seizes his arm. He pushes her aside, not violently, but firmly]—murdered. . . . Yes. . . . Yes, I shall. . . . Yes, the new house. . . . [Hangs up]

  ADRIENNE: Steve . . . you wouldn’t let me tell you . . .

  INGALLS: Well? What is it?

  ADRIENNE: [Pulls a man’s handkerchief from her pocket and hands it to him] This. [He looks at the initials on the handkerchief] It’s yours.

  INGALLS: Yes.

  ADRIENNE: It was caught on a branch—there—near the . . . body.r />
  INGALLS: [Looks at the handkerchief, then at her] It’s good evidence, Adrienne. [Slips the handkerchief calmly into his pocket] It’s evidence that you still love me—in spite of everything—in spite of what happened this afternoon.

  ADRIENNE: [Stiffening] Merely circumstantial evidence.

  INGALLS: Oh, yes. But one can do a lot with circumstantial evidence.

  CURTAIN

  SCENE 1

  Half an hour later. Before the curtain rises we hear the sound of Chopin’s “Butterfly Etude” played on the piano. It is played violently, exultantly—the gay notes dancing in laughter and release. The music continues as the curtain rises.

  STEVE INGALLS is alone on stage. He is pacing the room impatiently; he glances at his wristwatch. Then there is the sound of a car driving up. He looks out. He walks to the entrance door Left and throws it open suddenly, at the right moment, before the bell is rung. SERGE stands outside.

  SERGE: [As he enters, angrily] How thoughtful of you. [Pulls the Courier out of his pocket and throws it to him] There is nothing in the Courier about the Soviet Culture and Friendship Society. Or the FBI.

  INGALLS: No?

  SERGE: No! I make all the long trip for nothing.

  INGALLS: [Glancing through the paper] Guess Joe Cheeseman gave me the wrong dope.

  SERGE: And where is everybody? [INGALLS slips the paper into his pocket and doesn’t answer] Why is it in the house all the windows dark? [INGALLS stands watching him silently] What is the matter?

  INGALLS: Serge.

  SERGE: Yes?

  INGALLS: Mr. Breckenridge has been murdered.

  SERGE: [Stands stock-still for a long moment, then emits one short, sick gasp—like a moan. Then snaps hoarsely and crudely:] You are crazy! . . .

  INGALLS: [Without moving] Mr. Breckenridge is lying dead in the garden.

  SERGE: [Sinks down into a chair, his head in his hands, and moans] Boje moy! . . . Boje moy! . . .

  INGALLS: Save it for the others, Serge. Save it for an audience.

  SERGE: [Jerks his head up, his voice harsh and deadly] Who did it?

  INGALLS: You. Or I. Or any of us.

  SERGE: [Jumping up, ferociously] I?!

  INGALLS: Pipe down, Serge. You see, it’s the one question that none of us must ask—under the circumstances. Leave that to Greg Hastings.

  SERGE: Who?

  INGALLS: Greg Hastings. The district attorney. He will be here any moment. I’m sure he’ll answer your question. He always does.

  SERGE: I hope he’s good, I hope—

  INGALLS: He’s very good. Not one unsolved murder in his whole career. You see, he doesn’t believe that there can be such a thing as a perfect crime.

  SERGE: I hope he should find the monster, the fiend, the unspeakable—

  INGALLS: Let me give you a tip, Serge. Cut down on that kind of stuff around Greg Hastings. I know him quite well. He won’t fall for the obvious. He’ll always look further than that. He’s clever. Too clever.

  SERGE: [His voice rising angrily] But why do you say this to me? Why do you look at me? You do not think that I . . .

  INGALLS: I haven’t even begun to think, Serge. [TONY enters Right]

  TONY: [Gaily] The cops arrived? [Sees SERGE] Oh, it’s you, Serge, old boy, old pal.

  SERGE: [Startled] I beg your pardon?

  TONY: You look wonderful. The ride’s done you good. It’s wonderful to drive fast at night, against the wind, with nothing to stop you! To drive fast, so fast—and free!

  SERGE: [Aghast] But what is this? [Whirls on INGALLS] Oh, I see! It was the joke. It was the horrible joke from you. . . . [To TONY] Mr. Breckenridge he is not dead?

  TONY: [Lightly] Oh yes, Mr. Breckenridge is dead. Dead as a doornail. Dead as a tombstone. Good and dead.

  SERGE: [To INGALLS] He has lost his mind!

  INGALLS: Or just found it. [HELEN enters, coming down the stairs]

  HELEN: Tony, why did you—

  SERGE: Oh, Mrs. Breckenridge! Permit me to express the deepest sympathy at this terrible—

  HELEN: Thank you, Serge. [Her manner is now simple, young, more natural than it has ever been] Why did you stop playing, Tony? It was so lovely. I’ve never heard you play like this before.

  TONY: But you will hear me again. You will—for years—and years—and years—[INGALLS exits up the stairs] SERGE: Mrs. Breckenridge—

  HELEN: I will give you a piano, Tony. Now. Tomorrow.

  [There is the distant sound of a police siren approaching. SERGE looks up nervously. The others pay no attention]

  TONY: You won’t give me a piano! Nobody’s going to give me anything ever again! I think I can get a job at Gimbel’s, and I will, and I’ll save three dollars a week, and in a year I’ll have a piano—a good, secondhand piano of my own! . . . But I like you, Helen. HELEN: Yes. Forgive me.

  SERGE: Mrs. Breckenridge! . . . What has happened? HELEN: We don’t know, Serge.

  TONY: What’s the difference?

  SERGE: But who did it?

  TONY: Who cares?

  [Doorbell rings. TONY opens the door. GREGORY HASTINGS enters. He is a man in his early forties, tall, suave, distinguished, and self-possessed. He enters calmly, he speaks quietly, as naturally and undramatically as possible—without overdoing it. He enters, stops, looks at HELEN]

  HASTINGS: Mrs. Breckenridge?

  HELEN: Yes.

  HASTINGS: [Bowing] Gregory Hastings.

  HELEN: How do you do, Mr. Hastings.

  HASTINGS: I am truly sorry, Mrs. Breckenridge, that I should have to be here tonight.

  HELEN: We’ll be glad to help you in any way we can, Mr. Hastings. If you wish to question us—

  HASTINGS: A little later. First, I shall have to see the scene of—

  HELEN: [Pointing] In the garden. . . . Tony, will you show—

  HASTINGS: It won’t be necessary. I’ll keep my men out of your way as much as possible. [Exits Left]

  TONY: This is going to be interesting.

  SERGE: But . . . you are inhuman!

  TONY: Probably. [INGALLS enters, coming down the stairs] INGALLS: Was that Greg Hastings?

  TONY: Yes. The police.

  INGALLS: Where are they?

  TONY: [Pointing to garden] Sniffing at footprints, I guess.

  SERGE: There will not be any footprints. There will not be anything. It is going to be terrible.

  INGALLS: How do you know there won’t be anything, Serge?

  SERGE: There never is in a case like this.

  INGALLS: You never can tell. [Pulls the Courier out of his pocket] Anyone here want the evening paper that Serge was nice enough to bring us?

  TONY: [Taking the paper] Does the Courier have any comic strips? I love comic strips. [Turns the paper to the funny page] They don’t have “Little Orphan Annie,” though. That’s my favorite—“Little Orphan Annie.”

  HELEN: [Looking over his shoulder] I like “Popeye the Sailor.”

  TONY: Oh, no! Annie’s better. But Popeye has his points—particularly when they bring in Mr. Wimpy. Mr. Wimpy is good.

  HELEN: Lord Plushbottom is good, too.

  TONY: Lord Plushbottom is from another strip.

  SERGE: That’s what I drive the three-quarters of an hour for!

  HELEN: Oh, yes, Serge, wasn’t there some story you wanted to read?

  SERGE: There was! But there isn’t! Not a word in the damn paper about the Soviet Culture and Friendship Society!

  TONY: And not even “Little Orphan Annie” or “Popeye the Sailor.”

  [FLEMING comes down the stairs. He is sober and walks calmly, steadily. There is an air about him as if he were holding his head up for the first time in his life. His clothes are still disreputable, but he is shaved and his tie is straight]

  FLEMING: Steve, you won’t—by any chance—need a janitor down at the laboratory?

  INGALLS: No. But we will need an engineer.

  FLEMING: A has-been engineer?

  INGALLS: No. A shall-be eng
ineer.

  FLEMING: [Looks at him, then in a low voice:] Steve, you’re—

  INGALLS:—a cold-blooded egoist. I’ve never been called anything else. I wouldn’t know what to do if I were. Let it go at that.

  FLEMING: [Nods slowly, solemnly. Then sits down and picks up part of the newspaper] The police are out there in the garden. Guess they’ll want us all here. INGALLS: Yes, it won’t be long now.

  SERGE: [Walks to sideboard, pours himself a drink] Do you want a drink, Mr. Fleming?

  FLEMING: [With slow emphasis] No, thank you.

  SERGE: [Swallows a stiff drink in one gulp. Then:] The laboratory—who will run it now?

  INGALLS: I will.

  SERGE: And . . . what is to happen to the invention?

  INGALLS: Ah, yes, the invention. Well, Serge, only two men knew the secret of that invention—Walter and I. Walter is dead.

  SERGE: He wanted to give it to mankind.

  INGALLS: He did. Now I’m going to sit and loaf and collect a fortune. It’s too bad about mankind.

  SERGE: You have no respect for the wishes of a—

  INGALLS: I have no respect for anything, Serge.

  SERGE: [Cautiously] But if you should now carry out the wish of Mr. Breckenridge—then perhaps the police will not think that you had a reason to kill him.

  INGALLS: Oh, but Serge! You wouldn’t suggest that I try to deceive the police, would you? [HASTINGS enters from the garden. His face looks earnest]

  HASTINGS: Mrs. Breckenridge . . . [Sees INGALLS] Oh, hello, Steve.

  INGALLS: Hello, Greg.

  HASTINGS: I’m glad you’re here. It will make things easier for me.

  INGALLS: Or harder—if I did it.

  HASTINGS: Or hopeless, if you did it. But I know one or two things already which seem to let you out. [To HELEN] Mrs. Breckenridge, I’m sorry, but certain facts make it necessary for everyone here to be fingerprinted.

  HELEN: Of course. I’m sure none of us will object. HASTINGS: If you will please ask everybody to step into the library—my assistant is there with the necessary equipment. After that I should like to have everybody here.