Атлант расправил плечи
The Concerto of Deliverance
Hesawaloutscurryingacrossapatchoflamplight,swingingalengthofpipeatawallofglasspanes,batteringthemdownwithananimalrelish,dancinglikeagorillatothesoundofcrashingglass,untilthreehuskyhumanfiguresdescendeduponhim,carryinghimwrithingtotheground.
Thesiegeofthegateappearedtobeebbing,asifthespineofthemobhadbeenbroken.Heheardthedistantscreechesoftheircries—buttheshotsfromtheroadweregrowingrarer,thefiresettothegatekeeper’sofficewasputout,therewerearmedmenontheledgesandatwindows,postedinwell-planneddefense.
Ontheroofofastructureabovethegate,hesaw,ashecamecloser,theslimsilhouetteofamanwhoheldagunineachhandand,frombehindtheprotectionofachimney,keptfiringatintervalsdownintothemob,firingswiftlyand,itseemed,intwodirectionsatonce,likeasentinelprotectingtheapproachestothegate.Theconfidentskillofhismovements,hismanneroffiring,withnotimewastedtotakeaim,butwiththekindofcasualabruptnessthatnevermissesatarget,madehimlooklikeaheroofWesternlegend—andReardenwatchedhimwithdetached,impersonalpleasure,asifthebattleofthemillswerenothisanylonger,buthecouldstillenjoythesightofthecompetenceandcertaintywithwhichmenofthatdistantagehadoncecombattedevil.
