Атлант расправил плечи

           PopHarperglancedupatEddieWillersashecameoutofthepresident’soffice. Itwasawise,slowglance;itseemedtosaythatheknewthatEddie’svisittotheirpartofthebuildingmeanttroubleontheline,knewthatnothinghadcomeofthevisit,andwascompletelyindifferenttotheknowledge. ItwasthecynicalindifferencewhichEddieWillershadseenintheeyesofthebumonthestreetcorner. 

           "Say,Eddie,knowwhereIcouldgetsomewoolenundershirts?"heasked."Triedallovertown,butnobody’sgot‘em." 

           "Idon’tknow,"saidEddie,stopping."Whydoyouaskme?" 

           "Ijustaskeverybody.Maybesomebody’lltellme." 

           Eddielookeduneasilyattheblank,emaciatedfaceandwhitehair. 

           "It’scoldinthisjoint,"saidPopHarper."It’sgoingtobecolderthiswinter." 

           "Whatareyoudoing?"Eddieasked,pointingatthepiecesoftypewriter. 

           "Thedamnthing’sbustedagain. Nousesendingitout,tookthemthreemonthstofixitthelasttime.ThoughtI’dpatchitupmyself.Notforlong,Iguess." Helethisfistdropdownonthekeys. "You’rereadyforthejunkpile,oldpal.Yourdaysarenumbered." 

           Eddiestarted.Thatwasthesentencehehadtriedtoremember:Yourdaysarenumbered.Buthehadforgotteninwhatconnectionhehadtriedtorememberit. 

           "It’snouse,Eddie,"saidPopHarper. 

           "What’snouse?" 

           "Nothing.Anything." 

           "What’sthematter,Pop?" 

           "I’mnotgoingtorequisitionanewtypewriter.Thenewonesaremadeoftin.