Only at a closer glance could one notice that the white satin was boiling. Splashes flew out at times and
fell to the ground below: they were metal and, cooling while hitting the soil, they burst into flame.
Two hundred tons of a metal which was to be harder than steel, running liquid at a temperature of four
thousand degrees, had the power to annihilate every wall of the structure and every one of the men who
worked by the stream. But every inch of its course, every pound of its pressure and the content of every
molecule within it, were controlled and made by a conscious intention that had worked upon it for ten
years.

Swinging through the darkness of the shed, the red glare kept stashing the face of a man who stood in a
distant corner; he stood leaning against a column, watching. The glare cut a moment's wedge across his
eyes, which had the color and quality of pale blue ice—then across the black web of the metal column
and the ash-blond strands of his hair— then across the belt of his trenchcoat and the pockets where he
held his hands. His body was tall and gaunt; he had always been too tall for those around him. His face
was cut by prominent cheekbones and by a few sharp lines; they were not the lines of age, he had always
had them: this had made him look old at twenty, and young now, at forty-five.
Ever since he could remember, he had been told that his face was ugly, because it was unyielding, and
cruel, because it was expressionless. It remained expressionless now, as he looked at the metal. He was
Hank Rearden.

The metal came rising to the top of the ladle and went running over with arrogant prodigality. Then the
blinding white trickles turned to glowing brown, and in one more instant they were black icicles of metal,
starting to crumble off. The slag was crusting in thick, brown ridges that looked like the crust of the earth.
As the crust grew thicker, a few craters broke open, with the white liquid still boiling within.
A man came riding through the air, in the cab of a crane overhead. He pulled a lever by the casual
movement of one hand: steel hooks came down on a chain, seized the handles of the ladle, lifted it
smoothly like a bucket of milk—and two hundred tons of metal went sailing through space toward a row
of molds waiting to be filled.

Hank Rearden leaned back, closing his eyes. He felt the column trembling with the rumble of the crane.
The job was done, he thought.

A worker saw him and grinned in understanding, like a fellow accomplice in a great celebration, who
knew why that tall, blond figure had to be present here tonight. Rearden smiled in answer: it was the only
salute he had received. Then he started back for his office, once again a figure with an expressionless
face.

It was late when Hank Rearden left his office that night to walk from his mills to his house. It was a walk
of some miles through empty country, but he had felt like doing it, without conscious reason.
He walked, keeping one hand in his pocket, his fingers closed about a bracelet. It was made of Rearden
Metal, in the shape of a chain. His fingers moved, feeling its texture once in a while. It had taken ten years
to make that bracelet. Ten years, he thought, is a long time. The road was dark, edged with trees.
Looking up, he could see a few leaves against the stars; the leaves were twisted and dry, ready to fall.