Атлант расправил плечи
The Sign of the Dollar
Shehadseenitinthefacesofthemenatthestations.Thetrackworkers,theswitchmen,theyardmen,whohadalwaysgreetedher,anywherealongtheline,theircheerfulgrinsboastingthattheyknewwhoshewas—hadnowlookedatherstonily,turningaway,theirfaceswaryandclosed.
Shehadwantedtocrytotheminapology,"It’snotIwho’vedoneittoyou!"—thenhadrememberedthatshehadaccepteditandthattheynowhadtherighttohateher,thatshewasbothaslaveandadriverofslaves,andsowaseveryhumanbeinginthecountry,andhatredwastheonlythingthatmencouldnowfeelforoneanother.
Shehadfoundreassurance,fortwodays,inthesightofthecitiesmovingpastherwindow—thefactories,thebridges,theelectricsigns,thebillboardspressingdownupontheroofsofhomes—thecrowded,grimy,active,livingconfluxoftheindustrialEast.
Butthecitieshadbeenleftbehind.ThetrainwasnowdivingintotheprairiesofNebraska,therattleofitscouplerssoundingasifitwereshiveringwithcold.Shesawlonelyshapesthathadbeenfarmhousesinthevacantstretchesthathadbeenfields.Butthegreatburstofenergy,intheEast,generationsago,hadsplatteredbrighttricklestorunthroughtheemptiness;someweregone,butsomestilllived.
Shewasstartledwhenthelightsofasmalltownsweptacrosshercarand,vanishing,leftitdarkerthanithadbeenbefore.Shewouldnotmovetoturnonthelight.Shesatstill,watchingtheraretowns.
