Roark knew what to expect of his job. He would never see his work erected, only pieces of it, which he preferred not to see; but he would be free to design as he wished and he would have the experience of solving actual problems. It was less than he wanted and more than he could expect. He accepted it at that. He met his fellow designers, the four other contestants, and learned that they were unofficially nicknamed in the drafting room as "Classic,"

"Gothic,"

"Renaissance" and "Miscellaneous." He winced a little when he was addressed as "Hey, Modernistic."

The strike of the building-trades unions infuriated Guy Francon. The strike had started against the contractors who were erecting the Noyes-Belmont Hotel, and had spread to all the new structures of the city. It had been mentioned in the press that the architects of the Noyes-Belmont were the firm of Francon & Heyer.

Most of the press helped the fight along, urging the contractors not to surrender. The loudest attacks against the strikers came from the powerful papers of the great Wynand chain.

"We have always stood," said the Wynand editorials, "for the rights of the common man against the yellow sharks of privilege, but we cannot give our support to the destruction of law and order." It had never been discovered whether the Wynand papers led the public or the public led the Wynand papers; it was known only that the two kept remarkably in step. It was not known to anyone, however, save to Guy Francon and a very few others, that Gail Wynand owned the corporation which owned the corporation which owned the Noyes-Belmont Hotel.

This added greatly to Francon's discomfort. Gail Wynand's real-estate operations were rumored to be vaster than his journalistic empire. It was the first chance Francon had ever had at a Wynand commission and he grasped it avidly, thinking of the possibilities which it could open. He and Keating had put their best efforts into designing the most ornate of all Rococo palaces for future patrons who could pay twenty-five dollars per day per room and who were fond of plaster flowers, marble cupids and open elevator cages of bronze lace. The strike had shattered the future possibilities; Francon could not be blamed for it, but one could never tell whom Gail Wynand would blame and for what reason. The unpredictable, unaccountable shifts of Wynand's favor were famous, and it was well known that few architects he employed once were ever employed by him again.

Francon's sullen mood led him to the unprecedented breach of snapping over nothing in particular at the one person who had always been immune from it — Peter Keating. Keating shrugged, and turned his back to him in silent insolence. Then Keating wandered aimlessly through the halls, snarling at young draftsmen without provocation. He bumped into Lucius N. Heyer in a doorway and snapped: "Look where you're going!" Heyer stared after him, bewildered, blinking.

There was little to do in the office, nothing to say and everyone to avoid. Keating left early and walked home through a cold December twilight.

At home, he cursed aloud the thick smell of paint from the overheated radiators. He cursed the chill, when his mother opened a window. He could find no reason for his restlessness, unless it was the sudden inactivity that left him alone. He could not bear to be left alone.

He snatched up the telephone receiver and called Catherine Halsey. The sound of her clear voice was like a hand pressed soothingly against his hot forehead. He said: "Oh, nothing important, dear, I just wondered if you'd be home tonight. I thought I'd drop in after dinner."

"Of course, Peter. I'll be home."

"Swell. About eight-thirty?"

"Yes ... Oh, Peter, have you heard about Uncle Ellsworth?"

"Yes, God damn it, I've heard about your Uncle Ellsworth! ... I'm sorry, Katie ... Forgive me, darling, I didn't mean to be rude, but I've been hearing about your uncle all day long. I know, it's wonderful and all that, only look, we're not going to talk about him again tonight!"

"No, of course not. I'm sorry. I understand. I'll be waiting for you."

"So long, Katie."

He had heard the latest story about Ellsworth Toohey, but he did not want to think of it because it brought him back to the annoying subject of the strike. Six months ago, on the wave of his success with Sermons in Stone, Ellsworth Toohey had been signed to write "One Small Voice," a daily syndicated column for the Wynand papers. It appeared in the Banner and had started as a department of art criticism, but grown into an informal tribune from which Ellsworth M. Toohey pronounced verdicts on art, literature, New York restaurants, international crises and sociology — mainly sociology. It had been a great success. But the building strike had placed Ellsworth M. Toohey in a difficult position. He made no secret of his sympathy with the strikers, but he had said nothing in his column, for no one could say what he pleased on the papers owned by Gail Wynand save Gail Wynand. However, a mass meeting of strike sympathizers had been called for this evening. Many famous men were to speak, Ellsworth Toohey among them. At least, Toohey's name had been announced.

The event caused a great deal of curious speculation and bets were made on whether Toohey would dare to appear. "He will," Keating had heard a draftsman insist vehemently, "he'll sacrifice himself. He's that kind. He's the only honest man in print."

"He won't," another had said. "Do you realize what it means to pull a stunt like that on Wynand? Once Wynand gets it in for a man, he'll break the guy for sure as hell's fire. Nobody knows when he'll do it or how he'll do it, but he'll do it, and nobody'll prove a thing on him, and you're done for once you get Wynand after you." Keating did not care about the issue one way or another, and the whole matter annoyed him.

He ate his dinner, that evening, in grim silence and when Mrs. Keating began, with an "Oh, by the way ... " to lead the conversation in a direction he recognized, he snapped: "You're not going to talk about Catherine. Keep still." Mrs. Keating said nothing further and concentrated on forcing more food on his plate.

He took a taxi to Greenwich Village. He hurried up the stairs. He jerked at the bell. He waited. There was no answer. He stood, leaning against the wall, ringing, for a long time. Catherine wouldn't be out when she knew he was coming; she couldn't be. He walked incredulously down the stairs, out to the street, and looked up at the windows of her apartment. The windows were dark.

He stood, looking up at the windows as at a tremendous betrayal. Then came a sick feeling of loneliness, as if he were homeless in a great city; for the moment, he forgot his own address or its existence. Then he thought of the meeting, the great mass meeting where her uncle was publicly to make a martyr of himself tonight. That's where she went, he thought, the damn little fool! He said aloud: "To hell with her!" ... And he was walking rapidly in the direction of the meeting hall.

There was one naked bulb of light over the square frame of the hall's entrance, a small, blue-white lump glowing ominously, too cold and too bright. It leaped out of the dark street, lighting one thin trickle of rain from some ledge above, a glistening needle of glass, so thin and smooth that Keating thought crazily of stories where men had been killed by being pierced with an icicle. A few curious loafers stood indifferently in the rain around the entrance, and a few policemen. The door was open. The dim lobby was crowded with people who could not get into the packed hall, they were listening to a loud-speaker installed there for the occasion. At the door three vague shadows were handing out pamphlets to passers-by. One of the shadows was a consumptive, unshaved young man with a long, bare neck; the other was a trim youth with a fur collar on an expensive coat; the third was Catherine Halsey.