Атлант расправил плечи
The Sign of the Dollar
Itwasnotanelectriclight,itwasalonelyflameinthedarknessoftheearth.Sheknewwhereshewasandsheknewthatflame:itwasWyatt’sTorch.
Shewascomingclosetohergoal.Somewherebehindher,inthenortheast,stoodthesummitspiercedbytheTaggartTunnel.ThemountainswereslidinginalongdescentintothesteadiersoilofUtah.Sheletherplaneslipclosertotheearth.
Thestarswerevanishing,theskywasgrowingdarker,butinthebankofcloudstotheeastthincrackswerebeginningtoappear—firstasthreads,thenfaintspotsofreflection,thenstraightbandsthatwerenotyetpink,butnolongerblue,thecolorofafuturelight,thefirsthintsofthecomingsunrise.Theykeptappearingandvanishing,slowlygrowingclearer,leavingtheskydarker,thenbreakingitwiderapart,likeapromisestrugglingtobefulfilled.Sheheardapieceofmusicbeatinginhermind,onesheseldomlikedtorecalclass="underline"notHalley’sFifthConcerto,buthisFourth,thecryofatorturedstruggle,withthechordsofitsthemebreakingthrough,likeadistantvisiontobereached.
ShesawtheAftonairportfromacrossaspanofmiles,firstasasquareofsparks,thenasasunburstofwhiterays.Itwaslightedforaplaneabouttotakeoff,andshehadtowaitforherlanding.
