Атлант расправил плечи
The Moratorium on Brains
TheshockthatcamenextwastoseeDanneskjoldsmile:itwaslikeseeingthefirstgreenofspringonthesculpturedplanesofaniceberg.Reardenrealizedsuddenly,forthefirsttime,thatDanneskjold’sfacewasmorethanhandsome,thatithadthestartlingbeautyofphysicalperfection—thehard,proudfeatures,thescornfulmouthofaViking’sstatue—yethehadnotbeenawareofit,almostasifthedeadsternnessofthefacehadforbiddentheimpertinenceofanappraisal.
Butthesmilewasbrilliantlyalive.
"Idoapproveofit,Mr.Rearden.ButI’vechosenaspecialmissionofmyown.I’mafteramanwhomIwanttodestroy.Hediedmanycenturiesago,butuntilthelasttraceofhimiswipedoutofmen’sminds,wewillnothaveadecentworldtolivein."
"Whatman?"
"RobinHood."
Reardenlookedathimblankly,notunderstanding.
"Hewasthemanwhorobbedtherichandgavetothepoor.Well,I’mthemanwhorobsthepoorandgivestotherich—or,tobeexact,themanwhorobsthethievingpoorandgivesbacktotheproductiverich."
"Whatinblazesdoyoumean?"
"Ifyourememberthestoriesyou’vereadaboutmeinthenewspapers,beforetheystoppedprintingthem,youknowthatIhaveneverrobbedaprivateshipandnevertakenanyprivateproperty.
