Атлант расправил плечи
The Climax of the d’Anconias
Whateverelsehemaybe,nomatterwhatdepravityhe’ssunkto—andI’vegivenuptryingtofigureoutwhy—heisnotafool.Hecouldn’thavemadeamistakeofthiskind.Itisnotpossible.Idon’tunderstandit."
"I’mbeginningto."
Shesatup,jolteduprightbyasuddenmovementthatranthroughherbodylikeashudder.Shesaid:
"PhonehimattheWayne-FalklandandtellthebastardthatIwanttoseehim."
"Dagny,"hesaidsadly,reproachfully,"it’sFriscod‘Anconia."
"Itwas."
ShewalkedthroughtheearlytwilightofthecitystreetstotheWayne-FalklandHotel."Hesays,anytimeyouwish,"Eddiehadtoldher.Thefirstlightsappearedinafewwindowshighundertheclouds.Theskyscraperslookedlikeabandonedlighthousessendingfeeble,dyingsignalsoutintoanemptyseawherenoshipsmovedanylonger.Afewsnowflakescamedown,pastthedarkwindowsofemptystores,tomeltinthemudofthesidewalks.Astringofredlanternscutthestreet,goingoffintothemurkydistance.
Shewonderedwhyshefeltthatshewantedtorun,thatsheshouldberunning;no,notdownthisstreet;downagreenhillsideintheblazingsuntotheroadontheedgeoftheHudson,atthefootoftheTaggartestate.ThatwasthewayshealwaysranwhenEddieyelled,"It’sFriscod‘Anconia!"andtheybothflewdownthehilltothecarapproachingontheroadbelow.
Hewastheonlyguestwhosearrivalwasaneventintheirchildhood,theirbiggestevent.Therunningtomeethimhadbecomepartofacontestamongthethreeofthem.
