Атлант расправил плечи
The Sign of the Dollar
Itwasanoldsteamengine,thebestthattherailroadhadbeenabletoprovidefortheComet.Thefirewasbankedinthegrates,thesteamgaugewaslow,andinthegreatwindshieldbeforethemtheheadlightfelluponabandoftiesthatshouldhavebeenrunningtomeetthem,butlaystillinstead,likealadder’ssteps,counted,numberedandended.
Shereachedforthelogbookandlookedatthenamesofthetrain’slastcrew.TheengineerhadbeenPatLogan.
Herheaddroppedslowly,andsheclosedhereyes.Shethoughtofthefirstrunonagreen-bluetrack,thatmusthavebeeninPatLogan’smind—asitwasnowinhers—throughthesilenthoursofhislastrunonanyrail.
"MissTaggart?"saidOwenKelloggsoftly.
Shejerkedherheadup."Yes,"shesaid,"yes...Well"—hervoicehadnocolorexceptthemetallictingeofdecision—"we’llhavetogettoaphoneandcallforanothercrew."Sheglancedatherwatch."Attheratewewererunning,IthinkwemustbeabouteightymilesfromtheOklahomastateline.IbelieveBradshawisthisroad’snearestdivisionpointtocall.We’resomewherewithinthirtymilesofit."
"ArethereanyTaggarttrainsfollowingus?"
"ThenextoneisNumber253,thetranscontinentalfreight,butitwon’tgetheretillaboutsevenA.M.,ifit’srunningontime,whichIdoubt.
