Атлант расправил плечи
The Concerto of Deliverance
Throwingoffhisovercoat,hewenthurryingdownthesideoftheravine,lumpsofearthgivingwayunderhisfeet,hewentcatchingatthedriedcoilsofbrush,half-running,half-slidingtowardthelongblackformwhichhecouldnowdistinguishtobeahumanbody.Ascumofcottonwasswimmingagainstthemoon,hecouldseethewhiteofahandandtheshapeofanarmlyingstretchedintheweeds,butthebodylaystill,withnosignofmotion.
"Mr.Rearden..."
Itwasawhisperstrugglingtobeacry,itwastheterriblesoundofeagernessfightingagainstavoicethatcouldbenothingbutamoanofpain.
Hedidnotknowwhichcamefirst,itfeltlikeasingleshock:histhoughtthatthevoicewasfamiliar,arayofmoonlightbreakingthroughthecotton,themovementoffallingdownonhiskneesbythewhiteovalofaface,andtherecognition.ItwastheWetNurse.
Hefelttheboy’shandclutchinghiswiththeabnormalstrengthofagony,whilehewasnoticingthetorturedlinesoftheface,thedrainedlips,theglazingeyesandthethin,darktricklefromasmall,blackholeintoowrong,toocloseaspotontheleftsideoftheboy’schest.
"Mr.Rearden...Iwantedtostopthem...Iwantedtosaveyou..."
"Whathappenedtoyou,kid?"
"Theyshotme,soIwouldn’ttalk...Iwantedtoprevent"—hishandfumbledtowardtheredglareinthesky—"whatthey’redoing...
