Атлант расправил плечи
The Moratorium on Brains
"IthoughtI’djustmentionit,"theroadforemanansweredinnocently.
"Look,Dave,"saidBillBrent,knowingthatMitchumwouldstallforanotherhourratherthanformulateadecision,"youknowthatthere’sonlyonethingtodo:holdtheCometatWinstontillmorning,waitforNumber236,haveherDieseltaketheCometthroughthetunnel,thenlettheCometfinishherrunwiththebestcoal-burnerwecangiveherontheotherside."
"Buthowlatewillthatmakeher?"
Brentshrugged."Twelvehours—eighteenhours—whoknows?"
"Eighteenhours—fortheComet?Christ,that’sneverhappenedbefore!"
"Noneofwhat’sbeenhappeningtoushaseverhappenedbefore,"saidBrent,withanastonishingsoundofwearinessinhisbrisk,competentvoice.
"Butthey’llblameusforitinNewYork!They’llputalltheblameonus!"
Brentshrugged.Amonthago,hewouldhaveconsideredsuchaninjusticeinconceivable;today,heknewbetter.
"Iguess..."saidMitchummiserably,"Iguessthere’snothingelsethatwecando."
"Thereisn’t,Dave."
"OhGod!Whydidthishavetohappentous?"
"WhoisJohnGalt?"
Itwashalf-pasttwowhentheComet,pulledbyanoldswitchengine,jerkedtoastoponasidingofWinstonStation.
