Атлант расправил плечи
Anti-Life
TheopenbandoflightwasthedoorofJim’sstudy,andontheilluminatedstripofitscarpetshesawawoman’shatwithafeatherstirringfaintlyinadraft.
Shetookastepforward.Theroomwasempty,shesawtwoglasses,oneonatable,theotheronthefloor,andawoman’spurselyingontheseatofanarmchair.Shestood,inunexactingstupor,untilsheheardthemuffleddrawloftwovoicesbehindthedoorofJim’sbedroom;shecouldnotdistinguishthewords,onlythequalityofthesounds:Jim’svoicehadatoneofirritation,thewoman’s—ofcontempt.
Thenshefoundherselfinherownroom,fumblingfranticallytolockherdoor.Shehadbeenflungherebytheblindpanicofescape,asifitwereshewhohadtohide,shewhohadtorunfromtheuglinessofbeingseenintheactofseeingthem—apanicmadeofrevulsion,ofpity,ofembarrassment,ofthatmentalchastitywhichrecoilsfromconfrontingamanwiththeunanswerableproofofhisevil.
Shestoodinthemiddleofherroom,unabletograspwhatactionwasnowpossibletoher.Thenherkneesgaveway,foldinggently,shefoundherselfsittingonthefloorandshestayedthere,staringatthecarpet,shaking.
Itwasneitherangernorjealousynorindignation,buttheblankhorrorofdealingwiththegrotesquelysenseless.
