Атлант расправил плечи
The Concerto of Deliverance
mysortofspirit,remember?AndafterallI’vedoneforthem,afterallmyfaithandserviceandloyaltytothecause—"
"Youdamnfool,"Slagenhophadsnapped,"ofwhatuseareyoutouswithouthim?"
OnthemorningofNovember4,HankReardenwasawakenedbytheringingofthetelephone.Heopenedhiseyestothesightofaclear,palesky,theskyofearlydawn,inthewindowofhisbedroom,askythedelicatecolorofaquamarine,withthefirstraysofaninvisiblesungivingashadeofporcelainpinktoPhiladelphia’sancientrooftops.
Foramoment,whilehisconsciousnesshadapuritytoequalthesky’s,whilehewasawareofnothingbuthimselfandhadnotyetreharnessedhissoultotheburdenofalienmemories,helaystill,heldbythesightandbytheenchantmentofaworldtomatchit,aworldwherethestyleofexistencewouldbeacontinuousmorning.
Thetelephonethrewhimbackintoexile:itwasscreamingatspacedintervals,likeanagging,chroniccryforhelp,thekindofcrythatdidnotbelonginhisworld.Heliftedthereceiver,frowning."Hello?"
"Goodmorning,Henry,"saidaquaveringvoice;itwashismother.
"Mother—atthishour?"heaskeddryly.
"Oh,you’realwaysupatdawn,andIwantedtocatchyoubeforeyouwenttotheoffice."
"Yes?Whatisit?"
"I’vegottoseeyou,Henry.I’vegottospeaktoyou.Today.Sometimetoday.
