Атлант расправил плечи
The Moratorium on Brains
Buthegavein.Idon’tknowwhattheydidtohimtomakehimsign,butIknowthatitmusthavebeensomethingterrible.Everybodythinksso.Everybody’swhisperingaboutit,wonderingwhatsortofpressurewasusedonhim...No,nobodyknows.He’smadenopublicstatementsandhe’srefusedtoseeanyone...But,listen,I’lltellyousomethingelsethateverybody’swhisperingabout.Leancloser,willyou?—Idon’twanttospeaktooloudly.TheysaythatOrrenBoyleseemstohaveknownaboutthatdirectivelongago,weeksormonthsinadvance,becausehehadstarted,quietlyandsecretly,toreconstructhisfurnacesfortheproductionofReardenMetal,inoneofhislessersteelplants,anobscurelittleplacewayoutonthecoastofMaine.HewasreadytostartpouringtheMetalthemomentRearden’sextortionpaper—Imean,GiftCertificate—wassigned.But—listen—thenightbeforetheyweretostart,Boyle’smenwereheatingthefurnacesinthatplaceonthecoast,whentheyheardavoice,theydidn’tknowwhetheritcamefromaplaneoraradioorsomesortofloud-speaker,butitwasaman’svoiceanditsaidthathewouldgivethemtenminutestogetoutoftheplace.
Theygotout.Theystartedgoingandtheykeptongoing—becausetheman’svoicehadsaidthathewasRagnarDanneskjold.Inthenexthalf-hour,Boyle’smillswererazedtotheground.Razed,wipedout,notabrickofthemleftstanding.Theysayitwasdonebylong-rangenavalguns,fromsomewherewayoutontheAtlantic.
