Атлант расправил плечи
The Moratorium on Brains
"Hey,you,"hecalled,jerkinghisheadatthenightdispatcheracrosstheroom."Comehere.
You’vegottotakeoveratonce."
Withthedoorclosed,herepeatedtotheboythestoryoftheDieselatFairmount,ashehadgivenittoBrent,andtheordertosendtheCometthroughwithEngineNumber306,iftheboydidnothearfromhiminhalfanhour.Theboywasinnoconditiontothink,tospeakortounderstandanything:hekeptseeingthebloodonthefaceofBillBrent,whohadbeenhisidol."Yes,sir,"heansweredhumbly.DaveMitchumdepartedforFairmount,announcingtoeveryyardman,switchmanandwiperinsight,asheboardedthetrackmotorcarthathewasgoinginsearchofaDieselfortheComet.
Thenightdispatchersatathisdesk,watchingtheclockandthetelephone,prayingthatthetelephonewouldringandlethimhearfromMr.Mitchum.Butthehalf-hourwentbyinsilence,andwhentherewereonlythreeminutesleft,theboyfeltaterrorhecouldnotexplain,exceptthathedidnotwanttosendthatorder,Heturnedtothetrainmasterandtheroadforeman,askinghesitantly,"Mr.Mitchumgavemeanorderbeforeheleft,butIwonderwhetherIoughttosendit,becauseI...Idon’tthinkit’sright.Hesaid—"
Thetrainmasterturnedaway;hefeltnopity:theboywasaboutthesameageashisbrotherhadbeen.
Theroadforemansnapped,"DojustasMr.Mitchumtoldyou.
