Атлант расправил плечи
Atlantis
Shethoughtoftheweedsthatwereclimbingupthestepsofaclosedfactory,overitslustroustilefront,afewhundredmilesaway,beyondthemountains.
Theroadwasdescendingtothebottomofthevalley.Shesawtheroofsofthetownstraightbelow,andthesmall,shiningspotofthedollarsigninthedistanceattheotherend.Galtstoppedthecarinfrontofthefirststructureonaledgeabovetheroofs,abrickbuildingwithafainttingeofredtremblingoveritssmokestack.Italmostshockedhertoseesologicalasignas"StocktonFoundry"aboveitsdoor.
Whenshewalked,leaningonhercane,outofthesunlightintothedankgloomofthebuilding,theshockshefeltwaspartsenseofanachronism,parthomesickness.ThiswastheindustrialEastwhich,inthelastfewhours,hadseemedtobecenturiesbehindher.Thiswastheold,thefamiliar,thelovedsightofreddishbillowsrisingtosteelrafters,ofsparksshootinginsunburstsfrominvisiblesources,ofsuddenflamesstreakingthroughablackfog,ofsandmoldsglowingwithwhitemetal.Thefoghidthewallsofthestructure,dissolvingitssize—andforamoment,thiswasthegreat,deadfoundryatStockton,Colorado,itwasNielsenMotors...itwasReardenSteel.
"Hi,Dagny!"
ThesmilingfacethatapproachedheroutofthefogwasAndrewStockton’s,andshesawagrimyhandextendedtoherwithagestureofconfidentpride,asifitheldallofhermoment’svisiononitspalm.
