Атлант расправил плечи

           Itwasnotatown,onlyaclusterofhousesscatteredatrandomfromthebottomtotherisingstepsofthemountainsthatwentonrisingabovetheirroofs,enclosingthemwithinanabrupt,impassablecircle.

           Theywerehomes,smallandnew,withnaked,angularshapesandtheglitterofbroadwindows.Farinthedistance,somestructuresseemedtaller,andthefaintcoilsofsmokeabovethemsuggestedanindustrialdistrict.Butclosebeforeher,risingonaslendergranitecolumnfromaledgebelowtothelevelofhereyes,blindingherbyitsglare,dimmingtherest,stoodadollarsignthreefeettall,madeofsolidgold.Ithunginspaceabovethetown,asitscoat-of-arms,itstrademark,itsbeacon—anditcaughtthesunrays,likesometransmitterofenergythatsenttheminshiningblessingtostretchhorizontallythroughtheairabovetheroofs,"What’sthat?"shegasped,pointingatthesign.

           "Oh,that’sFrancisco’sprivatejoke."

           "Francisco—who?"shewhispered,knowingtheanswer.

           "Franciscod’Anconia."

           "Ishehere,too?"

           "Hewillbe,anydaynow."

           "Whatdoyoumean,hisjoke?"

           "Hegavethatsignasananniversarypresenttotheownerofthisplace.Andthenwealladopteditasourparticularemblem.Welikedtheidea."

           "Aren’tyoutheownerofthisplace?"

           "I?No.