The Foundation Head
The hot Summer sun beat down on the White House Ballroom construction, but to Howard Roark, the bright light was not the spotlight of fame; it was a cross-examination. He stood before the historic edifice, a structure that demanded nothing but the honest truth of its own integrity. It was a palace of the people, he had been told, a place where the spirit of the nation was captured in stone and glass. But now, the spirit was trapped behind the red tape of injunctions, a paper barricade erected by the small men who believed that a building must be a copy of the original to have any right to exist. He saw the judges in his mind’s eye, not as men of law, but as shadows of the past. They sat at their high bench, clutching the history of 1812 like a shield against the present. They called him a tenant, a mere custodian of a house that belonged to the people. They muttered of Versailles, of the British burning, of the need for an Act of Congress to alter a single brick. They were terrifie...