Атлант расправил плечи
Their Brothers’ Keepers
Therewasnothingspecialtoseebeyondthewindow,onlytheclearskyofasunnyday,thequietlightofearlyafternoonontheroofsofthecityand,abovethem,thepageofthecalendar,saying:September2.
Shedidnotknowwhyhehadinsistedonholdingthisconferenceinhisownoffice,whyhehadinsistedonspeakingtoheralone,whichhehadalwaystriedtoavoid,orwhyhekeptglancingathiswristwatch.
"Thingsare,itseemstome,goingwrong,"hesaid."Somethinghastobedone.Thereappearstoexistastateofdislocationandconfusiontendingtowardanuncoordinated,unbalancedpolicy.WhatImeanis,there’satremendousnationaldemandfortransportation,yetwe’relosingmoney.Itseemstome—"
ShesatlookingattheancestralmapofTaggartTranscontinentalonthewallofhisoffice,attheredarterieswindingacrossayellowedcontinent.Therehadbeenatimewhentherailroadwascalledthebloodsystemofthenation,andthestreamoftrainshadbeenlikealivingcircuitofblood,bringinggrowthandwealthtoeverypatchofwildernessittouched.Nowitwasstilllikeastreamofblood,butliketheone-waystreamthatrunsfromawound,drainingthelastofabody’ssustenanceandlife.One-waytraffic—shethoughtindifferently—consumers’traffic.
TherewasTrainNumber193,shethought.
