Атлант расправил плечи
The Concerto of Deliverance
.Franciscod’Anconia.
Hewasreachingforhishatandcoat,whenhenoticedthatthemenintheroomweretryingtostophim,thattheirfaceshadalookofpanicandtheirvoiceswerecryinginbewilderment:"What’sthematter,Mr.Rearden?...Why?...Butwhy?...Whathavewesaid?...
You’renotgoing!...Youcan’tgo!...It’stooearly!...Notyet!Oh,notyet!"
Hefeltasifhewereseeingthemfromtherearwindowofaspeedingexpress,asiftheystoodonthetrackbehindhim,wavingtheirarmsinfutilegesturesandscreamingindistinguishablesounds,theirfiguresgrowingsmallerinthedistance,theirvoicesfading.
Oneofthemtriedtostophimasheturnedtothedoor.Hepushedhimoutofhisway,notroughly,butwithasimple,smoothsweepofhisarm,asonebrushesasideanobstructingcurtain,thenwalkedout.
Silencewashisonlysensation,ashesatatthewheelofhiscar,speedingbackdowntheroadtoPhiladelphia.Itwasthesilenceofimmobilitywithinhim,asif,possessingknowledge,hecouldnowaffordtorest,withnofurtheractivityofsoul.Hefeltnothing,neitheranguishnorelation.Itwasasif,byaneffortofyears,hehadclimbedamountaintogainadistantviewand,havingreachedthetop,hadfallentoliestill,torestbeforehelooked,freetosparehimselfforthefirsttime.
