Атлант расправил плечи
The Sign of the Dollar
Thewaitercamein,bringingtheirdinner.Hesetatableandcourteouslymovedtwochairs,showingnoastonishmentatthenatureoftheoccasion.
Shelookedatthetable;shethoughtthatthemagnificenceofaworldwheremencouldaffordthetimeandtheeffortlessconcernforsuchthingsasstarchednapkinsandtinklingicecubes,offeredtotravelersalongwiththeirmealsforthepriceofafewdollars,wasaremnantoftheagewhenthesustenanceofone’slifehadnotbeenmadeacrimeandamealhadnotbeenamatterofrunningaracewithdeath—aremnantwhichwassoontovanish,likethewhitefillingstationontheedgeoftheweedsofthejungle.
Shenoticedthatthetramp,whohadlostthestrengthtostandup,hadnotlosttherespectforthemeaningofthethingsspreadbeforehim.Hedidnotpounceuponthefood;hefoughttokeephismovementsslow,tounfoldhisnapkin,topickuphisforkintempowithhers,hishandshaking—asifhestillknewthatthis,nomatterwhatindignitywaseverforceduponthem,wasthemannerpropertomen.
"Whatwasyourlineofwork—intheolddays?"sheasked,whenthewaiterleft."Factories,wasn’tit?"
"Yes,ma’am."
"Whattrade?"
"Skilledlathe-operator."
"Wheredidyouworkatitlast?"
"InColorado,ma’am.FortheHammondCarCompany."
"Oh...
