Атлант расправил плечи
The Moratorium on Brains
IwillhavelivedintheworldinwhichIstartedandIwillgodownwiththelastofit.Idon’tthinkyou’llwanttounderstandme,but—"
Abeamoflighthitthemwiththeviolenceofaphysicalblow.Theclangorofthetrainhadswallowedthenoiseofthemotorandtheyhadnotheardtheapproachofthecarthatsweptoutofthesideroad,frombehindthefarmhouse.Theywerenotinthecar’spath,yettheyheardthescreechofbrakesbehindthetwoheadlights,pullinganinvisibleshapetoastop.ItwasReardenwhojumpedbackinvoluntarilyandhadtimetomarvelathiscompanion:theswiftnessofDanneskjold’sself-controlwasthathedidnotmove.
Itwasapolicecaranditstoppedbesidethem.
Thedriverleanedout."Oh,it’syou,Mr.Rearden!"hesaid,touchinghisfingerstohiscap."Goodevening,sir."
"Hello,"saidRearden,fightingtocontroltheunnaturalabruptnessofhisvoice.
Thereweretwopatrolmeninthefrontseatofthecarandtheirfaceshadatightlookofpurpose,notthelookoftheirusualfriendlyintentiontostopforachat.
"Mr.Rearden,didyouwalkfromthemillsbywayofEdgewoodRoad,pastBlacksmithCove?"
"Yes.
