Атлант расправил плечи

           Hendrickswhetheranyamountofbloodwillsaveabodythatrefusestofunction,arottenhulkthatexpectstoexistwithouteffort.Mybloodbankisgold.Goldisafuelthatwillperformwonders,butnofuelcanworkwherethereisnomotor...No,Ihaven’tgivenup.Imerelygotfedupwiththejobofrunningaslaughterhouse,whereonedrainsbloodoutofhealthylivingbeingsandpumpsitintogutlesshalf-corpses."

           "Givenup?"saidHughAkston."Checkyourpremises,MissTaggart.

           Noneofushasgivenup.Itistheworldthathas...Whatiswrongwithaphilosopherrunningaroadsidediner?Oracigarettefactory,asIamdoingnow?Allworkisanactofphilosophy.Andwhenmenwilllearntoconsiderproductivework—andthatwhichisitssource—asthestandardoftheirmoralvalues,theywillreachthatstateofperfectionwhichisthebirthrighttheylost...Thesourceofwork?Man’smind,MissTaggart,man’sreasoningmind.Iamwritingabookonthissubject,definingamoralphilosophythatIlearnedfrommyownpupil...Yes,itcouldsavetheworld...No,itwillnotbepublishedoutside."

           "Why?"shecried."Why?Whatareyoudoing,allofyou?"

           "Weareonstrike,"saidJohnGalt.

           Theyallturnedtohim,asiftheyhadbeenwaitingforhisvoiceandforthatword.Sheheardtheemptybeatoftimewithinher,whichwasthesuddensilenceoftheroom,asshelookedathimacrossaspanoflamplight.