Атлант расправил плечи
The Concerto of Deliverance
Heknewthatthetightpressureofhisarmswastheonlyanswerwhichtheboywasnowabletohearandunderstand—andheheldthetremblingbodyasifthestrengthofhisarmscouldtransfusesomepartofhislivingpowerintothearteriesbeatingeverfainteragainsthim.
Thenthesobbingstoppedandtheboyraisedhishead.Hisfaceseemedthinnerandpaler,buttheeyeswerelustrous,andhelookedupatRearden,strainingforthestrengthtospeak.
"Mr.Rearden...I...Ilikedyouverymuch."
"Iknowit."
Theboy’sfeatureshadnopowertoformasmile,butitwasasmilethatspokeinhisglance,ashelookedatRearden’sface—ashelookedatthatwhichhehadnotknownhehadbeenseekingthroughthebriefspanofhislife,seekingastheimageofthatwhichhehadnotknowntobehisvalues.
Thenhisheadfellback,andtherewasnoconvulsioninhisface,onlyhismouthrelaxingtoashapeofserenity—buttherewasabriefstabofconvulsioninhisbody,likealastcryofprotest—andReardenwentonslowly,notalteringhispace,eventhoughheknewthatnocautionwasnecessaryanylongerbecausewhathewascarryinginhisarmswasnowthatwhichhadbeentheboy’steachers’ideaofman—acollectionofchemicals.
Hewalked,asifthiswerehisformoflasttributeandfuneralprocessionfortheyounglifethathadendedinhisarms.
