The Early Ayn Rand

Claire had been standing on her feet for three hours when the cameras were moved at last, and she was able to hobble towards a nurse, to get Mercurochrome smeared over the scratches on her arms and legs, to breathe, to powder her face and to look around.

She saw the tall, slender figure of a man in the simplest gray suit, insolently elegant in

its simplicity. Her heart did a somersault. She recognized the clear, contemptuous eyes, the scornful, irresistible smile. He was bending over Heddy Leland, talking to her intently, as if they were alone on the set. Heddy Leland was sitting in a low, comfortable canvas chair, a dark silk robe drawn tightly over her costume, her thin, brown hands motionless on the chair's arms. She was looking up at Winston Ayers, listening quietly, her face inscrutable; but she was looking at him as if he were the only man on the set.

Claire felt suddenly as if something had struck her through the ribs. She did not mind the set, nor the crowd, nor her place in it, nor Heddy Leland's place. It was the man in gray and the look with which he spoke to the girl in the chair. Claire was surprised to learn how much she minded that. She walked away hastily, with one last, bitter glance at the chair with the black inscription on its canvas back: "Keep off. Miss Heddy Leland."

She fell down wearily on the first chair she could find. " 'scuse me, please!" snapped a prop boy and, without waiting for her to rise, snatched the chair from under her and carried it away. She saw that it was marked: "Keep off. Mrs. McWiggins, Wardrobe." She stumbled away and sat down on the steps of a ladder. " 'scuse me, please!" snapped an electrician and carried the ladder away. She dragged herself into a shady corner and fell miserably down on an empty box.

"Ef-fry-body on de set!" roared Werner von Halz.

She stumbled heavily back to the set, swaying slightly, the white glare of the sun on the metal reflectors blinding her. A swift shadow fell across her face as someone passed by. She opened her eyes and found herself looking straight upon Winston Ayers. He stopped short and looked at her closely. One of his eyebrows rose slowly; he opened his mouth and quickly closed it again. Then he bowed, calmly, precisely, graciously, without a word, turned and walked on. But Claire had seen that his lips were trembling in a tremendous effort to stop the laughter that choked him. She grew crimson as a beet, even through the thick layers of brown makeup.

When the new scene was being rehearsed, Claire pushed her way, resolute and desperate, to the edge of the crowd, in front of the cameras. "They'll notice me!" she whispered grimly. They did.

"Who's dat girl in brown?" asked Werner von Halz after the first rehearsal, pointing his thumb at Claire Nash, who was struggling fiercely with the lump gathering on her stomach and the turban sliding off her head. "Take her out of dere! Put somebody dat can act in front!"

At the end of the day, every bone in her body aching and her feet burning like hot irons, with dust in her eyes and dust creaking on her teeth, Claire Nash stood in line at the cashier's window, curious and anxious, watching girls walk away with seven-fifty and ten-dollar checks. When she asked for her payment, the little slip of paper she received bore the words: "Pay to the order of Jane Roberts — the sum of five dollars."

Claire Nash was an indomitable woman. Besides, the thought of Winston Avers' trembling lips kept her awake all night. On the following day at the studio, she got a bit.

She remembered the beginning of her first career. She smiled and winked at an assistant director; she spoke to him — not too sternly. And as a result, when Mr. von Halz asked for a girl to do a bit, she was pushed forward.

Mr. von Halz looked her over critically, bending his head to one side. "Veil, try it," he said at last, indifferently. "Dat man" — he pointed to a tall, lean, pitiful extra — "iss a covard, he iss afraid of var. You" — he pointed to Claire — "are angry und laugh at him. You are... vat dey call it?... vun rough-und-ready woman."

"I?" gasped Claire. "I — a rough-and-ready woman? But it's not my type!"

"Vat?" said Mr. von Halz, astounded. "You dun't vant to do it maybe?"

"Oh, yes!" said Claire hastily. "Oh, yes, I do!"

The cameras clicked. The coward trembled, covering his face with his hands. Claire laughed demoniacally, her fists on her hips, and slapped him on the back, trying to forget as much of the ideal of sweet maidenhood as she could forget...