Атлант расправил плечи
The Sign of the Dollar
Inthebreakofaninstant,whensheseizedthewheelagain,thelightwasgone,buthershipwasspinning,herearswereburstingwithsilenceandherpropellerstoodstifflystraightbeforeher:hermotorwasdead.
Shetriedtopullforarise,buttheshipwasgoingdown—andwhatshesawflyingatherfacewasnotthespreadofmangledboulders,butthegreengrassofafieldwherenofieldhadbeenbefore.
Therewasnotimetoseetherest.Therewasnotimetothinkofexplanations.Therewasnotimetocomeoutofthespin.Theearthwasagreenceilingcomingdownuponher,afewhundredswiftlyshrinkingfeetaway.
Flungfromsidetoside,likeabatteredpendulum,clingingtothewheel,halfinherseat,halfonherknees,shefoughttopulltheshipintoaglide,foranattempttomakeabelly-landing,whilethegreengroundwaswhirlingabouther,sweepingaboveher,thenbelow,itsspiralcoilscomingcloser.Herarmspullingatthewheel,withnochancetoknowwhethershecouldsucceed,withherspaceandtimerunningout—shefelt,inaflashofitsfull,violentpurity,thatspecialsenseofexistencewhichhadalwaysbeenhers.Inamoment’sconsecrationtoherlove—toherrebelliousdenialofdisaster,toherloveoflifeandofthematchlessvaluethatwasherself—shefeltthefiercelyproudcertaintythatshewouldsurvive
