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November 4. Rearden had been told it would be an important date, one to change his future, but he suspected this was not what Mouch and his buddies had meant. He glanced at his watch, and then smirked. They were wrong, anyway. Technically, it was November 5.
The jet engines fired up, and Rearden looked out the window at his mills. His eyes lingered on the machinery, precise and orderly silhouettes against the glow of molten metal. It looked like lace work, fragile and precise and beautiful. He leaned his forehead against the cold glass.
"You okay, boss?" his superintendent asked. He was an older man, with a lined face and gray hair, and yet he looked like a child strapped into his seat and eagerly anticipating an adventure.
Rearden smiled. "I'm fine," he said.
The superintendent's face went serious for a moment. "I'll miss her," he said, glancing out the window at the glow of the mills, and Rearden reached out and squeezed his shoulder in comfort.
"I know."
The plane began to move. From the pilot's seat, Francisco d'Anconia looked back over his shoulder, a smile lighting his eyes. There was triumph on his face, and it amused Rearden greatly to see it. He'd seen echoes of it before, but now it was etched in full splendor; a satisfaction in a job well done.
"Let's go," Francisco said, and Rearden only smiled.
***
The plane soared through the night sky. Behind him, Rearden heard a sniffle. He glanced back to see Gwen wiping at her eyes. "What's wrong, Gwen?" he asked her quietly.
"Nothing," Gwen said, hurriedly pulling herself back together.
He indicated to the superintendent to switch seats with him, and settled beside Gwen. "You're going to be all right."
"Oh, I know that." Gwen smiled at him. "It's the people… the ones that are out there and won't give up, but won't be found."
That thought had occurred to Rearden as well. "They'll hold on," he said. "The people who want to live, whose minds are still functioning… they'll find a way to hold out until we can reclaim the world." He supposed. He hadn't had a chance to hear that part of the plan yet.
"But the others…" Gwen said. "All that life…."
"That's just it," Rearden said. "If they aren't making a try for it, it's not really life, is it?" He laced his fingers through hers and squeezed them gently. "Francisco says that's the hardest part to accept."
Gwen nodded. "There's a part of me that doesn't want to accept it," she admitted. "It's too horrible."
A great exhaustion washed over him, and he fished out his handkerchief and handed it to her. "It is horrible," he agreed. "But the very fact that you can see that horror and reject it is why you're on this plane."
Gwen nodded, but Rearden could tell she didn't accept it yet. He noticed Francisco glancing back at them again, but Francisco said nothing. His hands were firm on the controls, guiding the plane with a practiced confidence and ease. Rearden stared at them for a long moment, and then sighed, settling back against the seat.
The sight of Francisco's hands on the controls stayed with him as the rumble of the engines lulled him off to sleep.
***
They were flying west, but when Rearden opened his eyes, he was convinced he saw the sun rising in front of them. It wasn't; it was the sunlight from behind them reflecting off the smooth, shiny metal of the aircraft. They were spiraling down over mountains he knew all too well; mountains he had flown over in a desperate search. Rearden looked down, and the image of a mountaintop flickered away, and a valley opened up below them. This was Gult's Gulch, the place that Dagny had told him about. He hadn't truly believed it existed until now, when he saw the structures laid out below him like children's toys.
Beside him, Gwen caught her breath. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, but the traces of dried tears were still on her cheeks. But her chin was lifted and her eyes were clear, and he knew that she would be all right.
A man was waiting for them in the gray-gold light of the dawn. He stood on the edge of the airstrip, his hands in his pockets as he watched the plane touch down. He waved, his copper hair blowing in the stiff breeze, and Francisco broke into a smile as he shut down the plane and jumped out, landing lightly like a cat. The two men embraced.
"You made it," Rearden heard the newcomer say as he climbed out of the plane.
"Did you doubt it?" Francisco asked, smiling mischievously. "And do I have a surprise for you."
"Not much of a surprise," the man said, but he was smiling. He turned to Rearden, extending his hand. "Welcome, Mr. Rearden," he said. "I'm John Galt."
Of course. The pieces fell into place, and Rearden smiled, extending his own hand. Their fingers closed around each other; a mutual seal of approval and respect. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he said honestly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd looked at someone and had the immediate knowledge that he would actually like them. Galt faced him openly, his eyes meeting Rearden's squarely, and there was a solemn joy about him that was felt more than seen. This was his savior, the one who had made this world that he had just entered.
"Thank you," he said, his fingers tightening around Galt's.
"If you understand that I acted for my own sake, you know that no gratitude is required," Galt said.
"That is why I thank you," Rearden said. He realized that he was still holding Galt's hand, and released him. He looked around. "What happens next?" He smiled. "Or is that up to me?"
"Not entirely," Galt said. He glanced at the others who were coming out of the plane, staring around in wonder. "We do have some procedures that we generally follow, although…" he glanced at Francisco.
Francisco stepped forward. "Hank could stay with me tonight," he volunteered. "It would help."
Galt laughed. "That didn't take long." He noted Rearden's expression of confusion. "The first night is the hardest," he explained. "Letting go of the world that you've left, accepting that this one is real… it's something that every single person who has entered this valley has struggled with."
"I see," Rearden said, glancing at Gwen. She flushed.
"However," Galt continued, "there are too many of you to all sleep in my house." He glanced at Francisco. "You've worked hard for this," he said. "You've earned it."
Francisco's grin widened. "I thought you might see it that way. Come on, Hank," he said. He found the bag that Hank had packed; the few things he'd wanted from the outside world. "Let's go."
***
Despite the chill in the air, the valley still clung to its colors. The grass was still green underfoot, and flashes of red and gold lurked on the trees. But even those that had lost their colors had their beauty, forming stark lacework against the blue sky. Their breath hung in front of them in crystallized white clouds, and the wind nipped at their noses. As they walked, Rearden spotted houses set into the landscape like jewels set into a dark cushion; small buildings nestled amongst the wood, each unique in construction.
"How many people live here?" he asked.
"A little under two thousand," Francisco answered.
"That many?" Rearden said with surprise.
"We've grown the past year," Francisco said proudly. He gestured grandly. "That way is the town. After you've settled in, I can show you around."
Rearden nodded. Dagny hadn't been able to tell him anything about this place, and he hadn't pressed her out of respect for her promise. But he realized that he hadn't allowed himself to envision what this place really looked like, and that he was intensely curious. But Francisco was walking with purpose, leading him over a path and through the woods to a specific destination.
That destination was a small house, the wood stained silver by rain, the windows large and opening and welcoming the sun. Rearden stared at it. It was nothing like the house he'd occupied in the life he'd left, but as he took in the cabin, for the first time he had the feeling that he was coming home.
"Come on in," Francisco said.
There was a coat of arms hanging proudly over the door. Rearden glanced at it as he walked under it, having the feeling that he should touch it, like a worshiper dips their fingers in holy water when entering a cathedral. He stepped in, enjoying the sight before him.
He'd always associated luxury with Francisco d'Anconia, and the interior of this house did not disappoint him. However, instead of plush fabrics and heavy gilt frames, here there was the luxury of economy. The smooth, clean lines of the furniture emphasized each piece's purpose, blending into the room with a simplicity that looked effortless. A thick, soft carpet covered the floor, and wood rested in a fireplace, ready for lighting. A small area was designated as a kitchen space, with shining appliances and the wood of the floor showing through. Through an open door, Rearden could see Francisco's bedroom, the bed covered neatly with a thick, bright comforter.
"You'll need to sleep," Francisco said. "You can use my bed for now; I haven't made up the guest room."
"I'm fine," Rearden denied.
But Francisco was firm. "It's one of John's rules, and it's a good one," he said. "This place is hard enough to get used to, even if you think that you're ready. It's better to do it well rested."
"Do you think I can sleep?" Rearden asked.
"No," Francisco agreed. "I'll make us breakfast."
"I'll help you."
They worked together in the kitchen with an easy companionship, slicing bread and whisking eggs. They fell into a rhythm, and Rearden realized he was hungrier than he'd thought as he smelled the food in front of him. They didn't speak, and that surprised him. For once, his mind felt still.
They sat at the table, their food before them. Rearden had a million questions, but his mouth wouldn't form the words. He focused instead on the simple motions of eating, and the task of keeping his eyelids open. Francisco was watching him, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
"Come on," Francisco said, when Rearden found himself staring blindly at his near-empty plate. "Are you ready to admit that you're exhausted?"
"All right," Rearden sighed. He looked down at his plate again, and then glanced longingly through the open door. The bed called to him.
Francisco's face gentled. "They're all doing fine," he said. "They'll handle it well; we never would have brought them here if they weren't ready. You don't have to be strong for anyone else any longer. Go get some sleep."
Rearden blinked. "I wasn't-" he began, but it was useless, because he was and they both knew it. He scrubbed his face with his hands and nodded. "All right," he finally conceded. "I'll go sleep."
"Good," Francisco said. He stood, gathering the dishes. "You need it," he said. "And hurry up, because I'm dying to show you this place."
Rearden couldn't help it; he laughed.
***
The bed was soft and comfortable; Rearden was only aware of that as he woke up. The sky outside the window was tinged with reds and golds. It was a sunset, and yet it looked like a new dawn.
Francisco was lying on the floor, working on a sketch when Rearden emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed in fresh clothing he'd packed in his bag. Francisco didn't look up- his attention was focused on the drawings before him. Rearden stood still, smiling at the sight.
Francisco sensed his presence. He didn't look up quite yet, and his hand didn't falter, but something about the set of his shoulders changed. The easy confidence became playful.
"Are you going to acknowledge that I'm standing here?" Rearden finally asked.
"Are you going to acknowledge that you're standing there?"
"So are we going to see this place or not?" Rearden asked.
Francisco jumped up, leaving the sketch spread out across the floor. "Of course," he said. "It's about time."
"You're telling me this?"
The evening air was cold. Rearden wrapped his coat around his shoulders, but his scarf slipped loosely down around his neck, leaving a gap that he didn't even notice in his excitement.
Spread out below him was a sight that made him believe in paradise, and a smile began to spread over his face.
"This is real, isn't it?" he said, turning to Francisco. "You once asked me, is it only possible that evil is real? But this… this is real. Like it should be."
"It is real. Come on."
They descended into the valley, and yet, no walk that he had taken had ever felt more like an ascent.
***
"Is there a boarding house?" Rearden asked as they settled in Kay Ludlow's cafeteria with their plates.
"A boarding house?" Francisco asked, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth.
Rearden shrugged. "With the cold weather settling in, I'm not going to have time to build a place of my own," he said. "And the truth is, I'm not too interested in it at the moment. I'd rather get my business going instead."
"No, that's true," Francisco agreed. "Are you going to visit Midas?"
"Not yet. I need to work out the best way to do this. Eventually I'll start producing Rearden Steel, but I need to get an idea of the demand, the size of the furnaces and mills, what sort of staff I can hire…" The work unfolded in front of him, like a well-worn path. He smiled, eager to start.
Francisco wasn't laughing, but the way the corner of his eyes crinkled gave him the appearance of it. Rearden barely noticed. He could see the possibilities, the potential, and the thought of everything that had to be done energized him. He barely noticed his food, despite the fact that it was excellent.
The boarding house was a long, low structure run by Sarah Keller, a name that Rearden recognized from his invoices. "She was secretary to Ellis Wyatt," Rearden whispered as she consulted her records. "Right?"
"Right. She still works with him upon occasion, but I think she makes better money running her own establishment."
But Sarah was shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Rearden," she said regretfully. "I don't have an open room at the moment. I will in a month, unless one of the three tenants scheduled to leave opts to renew their contract, but until then, I'm booked."
"Thank you," Rearden said, sighing as he turned away. "Where can I try next?" he asked Francisco.
"Well, there are a few other places, but…" Francisco shrugged. "Or the other option is that you could always stay with me."
"I'm not taking charity," Rearden said. "You know that."
"You think it's charity?" Francisco laughed. "You know better than that."
He did. Rearden sighed. "All right," he said finally, because the truth was that staying with Francisco was exactly what he wanted himself. "Thank you." He glanced back at Sarah. "How much do you charge per day?"
"Fifty cents, which also buys breakfast and dinner."
Rearden nodded and turned back to Francisco. "I'll pay you forty cents a day, and provide dinner each night."
Francisco extended his hand. "It's a deal."
***
There was snow on the ground when Rearden left the valley, heading back up to the cabin. It crunched under his feet, and he left footprints in his wake. He pulled out his key and let himself in and set the bag of groceries on the counter.
The house was dark; Francisco wasn't home yet. Readen had the oddest sense of disappointment, much like he'd felt when he'd arrive Dagny's apartment after a long day and she would still be at her office. He shrugged and set to cooking dinner, delighting in the tasks of chopping vegetables and peeling potatoes. He found himself humming, the strokes of his knife matching the tempo of the piece.
"You're in a good mood."
Rearden looked up to see Francisco watching him. He was filthy, his face and hands smeared with black dust, and the clothing he wore was worn and had obviously seen this sort of treatment before.
"You'll want a shower before dinner," he said. He glanced at a clock. "You've got about fifteen minutes."
"Perfect." Francisco headed back towards his bedroom, and then stopped. "What is it?"
"What do you mean?" Rearden asked, affecting innocence.
"You're like a little kid with a secret," Francisco said.
"Get your shower," Rearden returned.
Francisco shook his head and headed back to his room. In minutes, Rearden heard the water running.
He had just set the food on the table when Francisco returned, looking much cleaner. "Good day?" Rearden asked, sitting down at the table.
"No, actually," Francisco sighed. "We hit a gas pocket today."
"Is everyone all right?"
"We had a few injuries, but no fatalities. But I need to fill an order for Lawrence Hammond in three days; I'm going to have to go back out after dinner."
Rearden nodded. "Do you need help? I could use the money."
Francisco stared at him, and then smiled. "I could. Thank you." He picked up his fork and dug into his food. "What did you do today?"
"I," Readen said slowly, pronouncing the words like they were the most important that he had ever spoken, "got a job."
"A job?" Francisco raised his eyebrows. "I would have thought you'd build your own mills."
Rearden shook his head. "In time, I will. But I want to do it right, and to do that, I have a lot of work planning in front of me. Planning doesn't pay," he said with a smile. "I need a way to earn my living while I do that. Besides," he said, a little bit wistfully, "Galt says that the code of the looters may collapse sooner than we think. If we can go back to the world soon, then I can reclaim my own mills. Although having some out here…" he shrugged, spearing a potato with his fork. "I will be producing Rearden Steel again. But if I build new mills here, there are a few ideas I want to try and some scaling issues. I can work on those at night."
Francisco nodded. "Where are you working?"
Rearden grinned. "You'll never guess."
Francisco narrowed his eyes. "The foundry?"
"No."
"Ellis Wyatt's utility company."
"No."
As Francisco thought, he took a bite of his dinner, and his eyes opened wide. "Kay Ludlow," he said, swallowing. "She was looking for help in her kitchen."
"You got it," Rearden said.
Francisco laughed, but there was a tinge of regret in his laughter. "Dagny would have your head," he said.
"Dagny's not here," Readen reminded him.
The words hung between them for a moment, the spirit of the woman they both loved. And yet, it wasn't painful, the memory of her, only warm and right. The only regret was that she still was not here.
"So, the mine," Rearden said. "You said you had injuries?"
Francisco nodded. "We had a collapse in one section. The foreman knew enough to recognize the signs and get most everyone out. He's the one who suffered the most severe injury- a compound fracture of his leg." Rearden winced in sympathy. Of course, the most promising section of ore was in that area, and the faster that we can get the supports braced…"
"Of course." Rearden glanced at the clock again. "I can help you until four AM."
"Thank you." There was gratitude in Francisco's eyes. "I'll pay you five dollars."
Rearden nodded. He turned back to his dinner, excited at the prospect of the evening in front of him. He felt like a teenager again, eagerly awaiting his first job and his first paycheck. He could barely finish his dinner.
***
The copper mines were lit with bright lights, and Rearden felt surprisingly at home. He'd worked in a quarry once when he was young, and the memories amused him as he crawled through the copper mines, helping to right the rubble.
He spotted John Galt, helping to brace the supports. Galt smiled at him. "Should have known you'd be here," he shouted over the roar of machinery.
"At the salaries Francisco pays?" Rearden shouted back. "Wouldn't miss it!"
"Better not be late for your new job though," Galt warned him, winking. "Your new boss is a stickler for that."
"You hear everything, don't you?" Rearden marveled.
Galt didn't answer, but he really didn't need to. They worked late into the night, and Rearden found himself working side by side with Galt through the project. It was easy, in its way, and he'd forgotten the joy of working with someone who knew his job intimately, and was willing to do the work.
He got two hours of sleep that night, before he had to report to his job at the cafeteria. He was exhausted, his muscles were sore, and he was oddly apprehensive about the work ahead of him, but he realized he hadn't felt this happy in a long, long time.
***
He spent the next evening with Galt, listening to his plans for the valley, describing their search for his motor. It was one of the most enjoyable evenings he'd had in a long time.
"John," he said, late in the night, "would it be possible for me to send a message?"
"What sort of message?" Galt asked warily.
Rearden looked at him directly. "I don't know if she's had the chance to tell you, but Dagny made her choice." Galt's face was solemn. Rearden smiled. "I'd very much like to tell her that I approve."
It was meant as a compliment of the highest order, and Galt took it that way. Rearden could see the pleasure in his eyes, the mark of a man admired by someone he respected. He nodded.
"Give her no information about the valley itself."
"Of course."
He penned the message simply. I have met him. I don't blame you. H.R He handed it to Galt, who slipped it into his pocket without looking at the contents.
"I'll make sure it's sent."
"Thank you. How much do I owe you?"
Galt stared at him for a long moment, and then burst into laughter. "You've paid me already," he said.
***
The days slipped into routine, and a very pleasant one at that. Rearden was up before dawn. On occasion, Francisco would be awake at that hour, either getting an early start or finishing a late night, but even when he was the house was silent. He'd walk down to the town, let himself into the cafeteria, and begin the preparations for business. He liked the big kitchen where he worked, and when Kay let herself in a half-hour later, he liked having a breakfast ready for her, and they would sit down and eat together before they began cooking in earnest.
The mealtime rushes were exciting. Rearden liked the action, liked the business and the feeling of the food passing under his hands, neatly chopped and cooked. He liked seeing the residents of the town come in; some eating quickly in order to return to their jobs, others lingering to spend time with friends and discuss ideas and exchange news, enjoying each other's company. Every so often a customer would compliment the food, and he felt a clean, unsullied pride at the praise from a person that could feel the sentiment behind the words the spoke.
The off-times when few customers were in the cafeteria were interesting as well. On slow days, when everything was cleaned and prepped, there was time to sit down and begin his plans. Occasionally, Kay would ask him to help her with her own work, reading parts of scenes. He had never been that interested in theater, but watching Kay made him wonder why. It was fascinating to watch her become someone else.
He worked breakfast and lunch; his work day ended at five o'clock. It suited him, and after saying goodbye and stopping at Hammond's for groceries, he made his way home.
Most days, Francisco would arrive home around six. They would eat dinner together, and then the evening would take shape. Sometimes Francisco would head back to his mines, but often they found themselves working side by side on their own plans. There was a rhythm to this life, and it was one that Rearden enjoyed very much.
He'd been there for three weeks when Francisco said, "Thanksgiving is in a few days."
Rearden blinked, doing the calculations. "You're right," he said. He was sitting in a chair, reading a book on metallurgy that he'd borrowed from Galt. "Is it odd that I actually feel like celebrating this year?"
"Not really," Francisco said. "There's actually something to celebrate. You've accomplished a lot this year."
Rearden smiled. "Funny," he said. "I've gone from owning my own mills to a cook in a cafeteria, and yet, you're right."
"Well, John would say that you've earned more this year because not one penny of it goes to feed the looters," Francisco said, setting his drawing aside. "And he's right. But the distance you've traveled in terms of understanding the world, in what you see and what you are able to accept… it is an accomplishment. Honesty should be so easy for humans, and yet, so many people find it easier to delude themselves."
"Well, the idea that people want to live is a more attractive notion than that they want to destroy life," Rearden admitted sourly. A memory surfaced, and he felt Tony's body in his arms again. The thought sickened him, that the boy had been killed because he had finally learned what it meant to live.
Francisco watched him, sympathy etched on his face. Rearden had to look away, because he found that the expression hit something deep within him, lancing the grief and bringing it back up to the surface.
"When you were there, at the mills, did you know him?" Rearden asked. "Tony?"
"I knew who he was," Francisco said. "I saw his struggle. But I didn't think he was ready for me." He paused. "Maybe I was wrong."
Rearden stood up and poured them both a drink. Nothing in Francisco's voice asked for comfort; there was only a regret that he would never know the answer. He handed Francisco the drink, and walked over to the window. It was dark enough that he couldn't see much beyond the glass, but if he looked up at the right angle, he could see the stars.
"He accepted the consequences of his own actions," Rearden finally said. "There's something to be said for that."
"There's everything to be said for that," Francisco said.
Rearden turned. "Does it ever bother you?" he asked. "All those people who are out there, struggling to survive. The ones that don't come to your notice because they aren't the giants and they aren't the ones you can find, but they live their lives on their own terms and don't ask for handouts. People like Gwen Ives, or Eddie Willers, or even Owen Kellogg- people who were lucky enough to be in the sphere of someone you did notice."
"It bothers us," Francisco admitted. "But at the same time, these people don't just escape our notice, they escape the looters' notice a little better as well. They suffer, but because they don't have so much for the looters to seize, the effect on their survival and well-being is less. But we won't let them perish."
"No?" Rearden returned to his seat. "What happens?"
Francisco smiled. "It's funny that you ask that tonight. You know that the Head of State," his mouth twisted on those words, "Mr. Thomas is planning a radio speech for tomorrow night?"
"I heard something about it," Rearden said.
Francisco's grin became mischievous. "John's planning on pre-empting it with more worthwhile programming."
Rearden thought about that, and then he began to laugh as he pictured the chaos that would undoubtedly ensue back in the looters' world. "I almost wish I could be there for it."
"I know the feeling."
"Will the valley itself open up?"
"To an extent," Francisco admitted, "but many people won't be able to make their way here. But what the broadcast will do is give them hope; let them know what we are doing and what we plan, and that if they can just hold on, if they can just find a safe place… then the world will be reborn and their suffering will be over. They will be free."
Rearden closed his eyes in gratitude. "None of us will ever be able to repay you," he said softly.
"Of course you will," Francisco said. "Because when the world is free, I will have everything I ever wanted. And really, what more can any man ask than the freedom to live his life?"
Rearden just nodded, and sipped his drink.
***
The Oath. Rearden had taken it immediately, solemnly, meaning it with every fiber of his being.
I swear- by my life and my love of it- that I will never live for the sake of another man, or ask another man to live for mine.
John Galt said those words first, but Rearden had always felt them vibrating through his mind. But today, as he and Francisco gathered with the others around a wireless to hear Galt's speech, it was hard to remember them. Because what Galt did; the bravery of his actions, the artistry of his words… Rearden knew he did it for himself. But it was what every person in that room believed, and it was hard to forget that he didn't do it for them, for their sakes.
The dining room of the cafeteria was full. They all listened, their faces full of a solemn joy. Francisco stood beside Rearden, his shoulders straight and his head high as he listened with a great intensity. He caught Rearden watching him and smiled, his smile full of sunlight and promise.
"I swear- by my life and my love of it- that I will never live for the sake of another man, or ask another man to live for mine." Galt's voice echoed on the radio, and the assembled audience burst into cheers and whistles. As they celebrated the best within themselves, Francisco slipped through the crowd, approaching Rearden.
"I feel like we should stay and listen to the chaos that comes afterwards," Francisco said.
Readen chuckled. "I'm sure he's got them scrambling." He looked at the others. "I'm not sure I feel like staying, though."
"I was thinking of going home," Francisco agreed. "Want to join me?"
There was no one else that Rearden would rather spend this night with. "Absolutely."
They stepped out into the cold air. The darkness had finally fallen, enveloping the valley under a soft, velvet blanket. Snow had started, small flakes swirling in the air in front of them. They could hear echoes of laughter and music, conversations and celebration. But even above that, they heard the sounds of hammers on nails, of engines running, of valves opening and shutting and rock being chipped away. The sounds of production.
"It's funny," Rearden said as they walked. "I never thought I'd live in Colorado."
"No?" Francisco asked. "Why not?"
"The East was always where the industry was. Guess I'm going to have to check that assumption."
Francisco laughed. "Maybe. Maybe not. We'll see how the next few months go."
They were climbing the mountain. Rearden stopped and turned around, looking down at the lights of the valley. "I don't know," he said. "I think, no matter what happens, I'll be keeping a place here."
"You always have a place here," Francisco said, laying his hand on Rearden's shoulder.
Rearden smiled at him. "I know," he said. "That's why I think this is home."