Атлант расправил плечи
The Moratorium on Brains
Allthattalkaboutlibertyandhumanrights—Ihaven’thearditsincethedaysofmygreat-grandfather.It’snothingbutaverballuxuryoftherich.Afterall,itdoesn’tmakeanydifferencetothepoorwhethertheirlivelihoodisatthemercyofanindustrialistorofabureaucrat."
"Thedayoftheindustrialistsisover.Thisisthedayof—"
Thejoltfeltasiftheairwithinthecarsmashedthemforwardwhilethefloorstoppedundertheirfeet.KipChalmerswasflungdowntothecarpet,GilbertKeith-Worthingwasthrownacrossthetabletop,thelightswereblastedout.Glassescrashedofftheshelves,thesteelofthewallsscreamedasifabouttoripopen,whilealong,distantthudwentlikeaconvulsionthroughthewheelsofthetrain.
Whenheraisedhishead,Chalmerssawthatthecarstoodintactandstill;heheardthemoansofhiscompanionsandthefirstshriekofLauraBradford’shysterics.Hecrawledalongthefloortothedoorway,wrencheditopen,andtumbleddownthesteps.Farahead,onthesideofacurve,hesawmovingflashlightsandaredglowataspotwheretheenginehadnoplacetobe.Hestumbledthroughthedarkness,bumpingintohalf-clothedfiguresthatwavedthefutilelittleflaresofmatches.
Somewherealongtheline,hesawamanwithaflashlightandseizedhisarm.Itwastheconductor.
"Whathappened?"gaspedChalmers.
"Splitrail,"theconductoransweredimpassively.
