"So this is how it feels," whispered one of the men on the hill.
"How what feels?" asked the other, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the bright August sun.
The first man lowered his binoculars and answered, "I never understood how a person could say, 'I see it, but I don't believe it.' Now I know what it's like to see something that contradicts your understanding of reality so strongly and seemingly impossibly that the brain cannot automatically accept the sight as real." He raised his binoculars again and focused his eyes on the unbelievable sight in the valley down below: horses, cows, goats, sheep, chickens, farm animals of every kind toiling away on a farm with no sign anywhere of human life. A horse and a donkey were plowing a field without a driver. A flock of sheep ran along the edge of the field pulling up weeds in their teeth. A goat and two cows were pulling ropes tied to small stones, dragging them to a pile of stones on another hill. A horse was dragging much larger boulders up a steep slope and pushing them over the edge. In the midst of it all, several pigs ran to and fro, making observations and giving instructions and words of approval to each animal.
"Animals can speak, animals can think and plan, animals can perform organized labor independently without the supervision of human beings. I see it, I hear it, other see and hear it. Contradictions do not exist. A is A. It is real. " The first man lowered his binoculars again and fell silent, apparently finally able to integrate the sight before him with his previous understanding of the laws of reality.
"I couldn't believe it 'til I saw it for myself, either, Mr. Galt," his companion assured him.
"Call me John." John Galt turned to his left and walked a bit around the hill to get a better look at the horse hauling the rocks. Francisco, he thought, if you saw Sisyphus straining harder and harder to push that boulder up the hill, his knees buckling, his hands cracked and bleeding, his shoulders aching, knowing all the time that when he's done, he'll have nothing to show for his labor, nothing in his future but more labor, yet still struggling to roll that boulder uphill for his masters, what would you tell him to do?
The two spies watched the poor beast strain his way up the slope for a while, sweating and panting in the heat but never slowing, never faltering, never stopping, before the second man shook his head and said, "Breaks your heart, doesn't it?"
John Galt looked at him, bewildered. "Of course not," he said.
His companion said, even more bewildered, "Look at what the pigs are doing to him!"
"From what I hear, he worked as hard as the pigs to create this society," Galt said simply. "He wanted it as badly as they did. He's living the life he wanted, doing exactly what he wants."
"Nobody wants this!" his companion said as harshly as he dared, unable to yell in this time and place. "The pigs are working all the animals around here like slaves!"
"From what I hear, they chose to become their slaves," Galt said with a shrug as stared down at the farm.
"They didn't want this!"
"From what I hear, they wanted a world where each would work according to his ability and be provided for equally according to his need. They all willingly worked, planned, and fought together to make this happen. They are reaping what they sowed, and the harvest has been bountiful."
"The pigs didn't tell them they were sowing this!"
"But when the crop began to grow, they didn't abandon the masters who had deceived and betrayed them. They chose to continue on the same course instead of turning around, even when it became obvious the road didn't lead where they expected."
"How could they 'turn around' without being torn apart by those dogs?"
"They gave their masters this power. The tyranny that rules them would never have been possible without their support."
"You've got some nerve. You know what it's like to rebel against tyrannical slaveholders?"
"Yes." Galt's eyes continued to rove over the farm, but they were seeing a group of factory workers signing their souls over to three devils whom they told themselves were angels, knowingly and willingly selling themselves into slavery, vowing to sacrifice their ability and effort for whatever their masters would judge was needed, trading their freedom for lofty-sounding terms like "equality," "common good," brotherhood," and "redistribution." He realized the sights were one and the same. The Twentieth Century Motor Company had been Animal Farm; this Animal Farm was the Twentieth Century Motor Company. They were different incarnations of the same evil.
A voice behind him pulled Galt out of his revery: "Well, I'm not going to let them suffer like this." (Galt heard a rustle of paper; the man must have taken his notebook back out and begun making some more notes.) "I'm going to make sure the world knows the truth about their life here."
They briefly heard the barking of several dogs in the distance. "You really think you can save them?" Galt asked sardonically.
It took awhile before he heard the answer: "Even if I can't, I can make sure no one lets this happen anywhere else."
"It already is. I'd like to think people would heed your warning, but the possibility overreaches what I've observed to be the majority of humankind's exercise of reason." Nobody else at the factory had seen the evil of the Starnes' plan, it had appalled no one else strongly enough to motivate them to quit as he did. Nobody else had left...
Galt's train of thought was halted by a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw his companion pointing at some pigeons flying out of a nearby tree, heading in their direction. "If they sound the alarm, the whole farm will be after us," the man said, stowing his pen and notebook back in knapsack. "We should go now."
Knowing how little human beings were welcome here, Galt lifted his own pack onto his shoulder and prepared to sneak away, but he couldn't resist pausing to gaze one last time at the animals slaving away on the farm, trapped in a Hell of their own making. If it was shocking that so many animals had the capacity to execute this plan, it was even more shocking that none had the capacity to rebel against it...
"Didn't anyone walk away?" Galt wondered aloud.
His companion, who had already taken a few steps down the hill, stopped and turned back to him. "What are you talking about?" he asked impatiently.
Galt finally turned away and followed him down the side of the hill away from the farm. "When this madness started, wasn't there even one dissenting vote? Didn't anyone see this was a bad idea? Did anyone refuse, reject it, leave while they had the chance? Didn't anyone quit?"
The other man pondered for a minute, but answered, "No, all the animals that worked for Jones are still here. Except for that pig they chased away last spring."
"A leader ousted by a more-power-hungry leader," Galt said in resignation. "But no animal left because they didn't want to live like this."
"No way, they're all devoted to the Farm, they wouldn't dream of abandoning it. Except for that horse."
"What horse? When?"
"Wandered off in December, I think. Ran away, never came back."
"Is he still alive?"
"Yes, she is. The animals act like she's dead, though; they never talk about her."
"Of course they don't. If one member doubted, others might follow. Any mention or even memory of her would be dangerous."
The other man chuckled. "I... don't think any of them could be afraid of her. Nobody liked her."
"Of course they didn't."
"They all thought she was silly and foolish."
Galt pictured the sight of the self-appointed slaves laboring on the farm behind them, thought of the plans they had made, the leaders they had elected, and the lifestyle they had embraced, and wondered what their definition of "foolish" was. "Where can I find her?"
"He usually comes home from work about now." The man turned back to his notes while John Galt continued looking up and down the street for any sight of the dogcart they were waiting for. It struck him as he did so how normal the area looked, which made no sense. The very few passersby walked, rode, or drove through as if there was nothing of interest around them. Certainly no one was waiting expectantly for something like the two men on the stoop of a vacant house. Galt began to doubt his guide's story; the residence of a talking horse, let alone of a runaway slave, would surely attract more attention than he observed here.
"How often do people ask you to bring them here?" Galt wondered aloud.
" 'Til now, never," was the reply.
Galt only had to ponder that for a second before sighing, "Of course – your customers would find those who choose to suffer much more interesting than the one who saved herself."
"She probably prefers it that way." Galt had to smile and nod in agreement. The man went on: "She keeps a low profile, never talks, never acts different from any other horse, just minds her own business and does her work."
"Does her employer know where she came from?"
"You mean, her owner? Yeah, he knows. When she first went missing, I expected her to end up either starved to death or as the star in some Talking Horse-freak show. I don't know how she ended up staying with this guy."
"She stayed with him," Galt explained, as confidently as if he knew the story first-hand, "because he didn't intend to exploit her for publicity or try to profit off her suffering. He offered her a home because he had a job she could do, and he found someone not only with experience but whom he no doubt judged would be easier to work with than all other candidates."
"Or she told him her story, he felt sorry for her, and took her in out of charity."
Galt shrugged and said, "I would see more to admire than pity in her, and don't see employment as charity, but put it that way, if it makes sense to you."
The other man scoffed, "She got him to take her in because she's sweet and beautiful, and she stayed because she gets all the hair-ribbons and sugar she wants."
"Sugar isn't all that strange a method of payment. Humans have used salt as currency in the past."
The other man shook his head and began writing in his notebook again. "It doesn't matter," he said. "She doesn't talk to anybody, so if you're thinking of interrogating her about the farm, forget it – I've tried."
"I don't need to interrogate her," Galt assured him, thinking once again of the Twentieth Century Motor Company and the unsurprising stories he heard about it after he left. There was nothing new anyone could tell him about life on Animal Farm that he wouldn't already know.
The writer looked up, confused. "Then why'd you ask me to bring you here? I thought you wanted to talk to her."
"I do," Galt answered, "but not to interview her. I want to hire her."
"You mean, buy her?"
"If that's what you choose to call it, yes – true, I will have to get approval from her current employer, after all."
Galt had been surveying the street as he spoke. When he turned back to his companion, he was surprised at the look of shock on his face as he struggled to recover his power of speech before he finally said, "What are you, crazy? What, there aren't any carriage horses left in America?"
"None like this one. There are myriad jobs where I come from for someone like her for people who would be more than willing to pay the wages she desires. Whether she prefers pulling light wagons of vegetables, apples, fish, tobacco, or bread, or being ridden around town by two energetic and curious little boys... or over the hills, meadows, and woods by a young woman enjoying herself after a long day's (or week's) work, is up to her."
Galt's description only seemed to increase his companion's disbelief. "You think her owner will just sell her, like that?" he asked.
"If he cares about her, he may not have a choice." Galt gestured over his shoulder, careful not to look in that direction, at three pigeons perched on the edge of a nearby roof, looking far more alert and attentive than pigeons usually did. He'd noticed them arrive shortly after he and his guide had. "She has company," Galt whispered.
The other man followed Galt's gaze, instantly became uneasy, and hurriedly looked away. "Guess they spotted us after all," he said.
"What makes you think they're after us?"
"What else would they be doing out here?"
"Looking for the same thing we are."
"They wouldn't care what happens to her anymore."
"But their masters do. She's the one that disobeyed them, the one that got away, the one they couldn't control. No dictator can ignore something like that. Her discontent could spread; her escape could motivate others to do the same. She now poses a more dangerous threat to their reign than any outside human invader possibly could. They can't simply let that go."
"So they'll do what they always do: tell everyone to forget about her, that her existence was all in their imagination, and before long, they'll believe it was."
"That's one possibility, but, even though it would take more effort, they might prefer a more concrete solution..."
The two men were interrupted by the sound of cart wheels on cobblestone. Both turned to the left and saw a small but elegant red and black dogcart come around the corner across the street. The only occupant was the driver – an unremarkable, rather heavy-set man, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief, but Galt didn't have time to notice many details about him before his eyes were drawn to the horse – a fine, fit, young mare whose white coat and mane glistened like silver in the bright, summer sun. Although her head hung comfortably down, her body stood firm and erect with dignity. She walked with a steady, confident gait, every step as graceful as a queen's, every movement emphasizing different muscles in the strong shoulders and legs. Her eyes burned with both the pleasure of one doing the work they enjoy and the pride of doing it well. Galt's mind instinctively compared the image in front of him with the images of the groveling slaves he'd seen at the farm, with their empty gazes, bent backs, cringing bodies, and limbs trembling in fear, all capacity for joy, confidence, and dignity burnt out. If he had ever once stopped to ponder how animals would look with human intelligence, he would never have imagined that; he would have imagined this.
The cart stopped in time to meet a young boy running around the side of a house. Galt deduced this must be the former stableboy of Foxwood Farm who quit after almost losing his life in a skirmish with the animals, whom his guide had told him had been hired here shortly before the horse. The front door of the same house opened to emit a woman, who walked down to the street. The driver dismounted, handed the reins to the boy, and embraced and kissed the woman. The two spectators stood up, Galt looking at the boy stroking the horse's mane, his companion looking at his watch. "If my work here is done," he announced, "I've got to go."
"Your service has been invaluable," said Galt as he retrieved a gold coin from his pocket and handed it to him. "I'll take it from here, Mr. Blair."
"Call me Eric." He pocketed his payment, and the two men shook hands one last time. Galt watched him walk down the street and disappear around a corner. The block was now deserted except for himself, the horse, her three companions, and the three pigeons. Galt couldn't help keeping his eyes on the latter as he crossed the street. They kept looking from him to each other. By the time he'd reached the other side, they'd flown off.
"That's a fine horse you have there, young man," Galt said as he approached.
"Yes, sir, she's a real beauty," the boy replied, stroking her nose.
Galt ran his fingers along her mane, noticing as he did so some brightly-colored ribbons tied around a few locks. She shifted her head toward him, evidently enjoying the admiration. Remembering the pit stop he'd made on the way here, Galt fished a sugar cube out of his pocket and extended it to her. She greedily gobbled it up from his palm.
"Finest in the land, sir," the man said proudly, placing one hand on her neck and extending the other to Galt, who shook it politely. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure…"
"No, sir, I'm quite the stranger here. Pardon my intrusion, but I have a business proposition for you, and I was hoping you might have the time..."
"You don't say? Well, pardon me, but I never discuss business in the street. Won't you come inside?"
"Certainly," Galt agreed. With that, the man put his arm around his wife and headed up the steps towards the house. Galt, however, lingered for a minute in the street, still petting the horse's neck. The boy gently grabbed her halter, preparing to lead her away. Galt realized any discussion with her would have to come later – her employer's conditional approval first, her consent second. His course of action set for the evening, Galt prepared to go inside and get down to business, but not before giving her another lump of sugar, stroking her nose, placing his hand under her chin, and whispering, "It's an honor to meet you, Mollie."