Атлант расправил плечи
“This is John Galt speaking”
Aradioreceiverwasplayingaprogramofmilitarymarchesbroadcastfromanotherstudio,half-drowningthefragmentsofnervousvoices,ofhastilyaimlesssteps,ofscreechingmachinerybeingpulledtofocusuponthedrawing-roomset.
"StaytunedtohearMr.Thompson’sreportontheworldcrisisateightP.M.!"criedthemartialvoiceofanannouncer,fromtheradioreceiver—whenthehandonthedialreachedthehourof7:45,"Steponit,boys,steponit!"snappedMr.Thompson,whiletheradioburstintoanothermarch.
Itwas7:50whenChickMorrison,theMoraleConditioner,whoseemedtobeincharge,cried,"Allright,boysandgirls,allright,let’stakeourplaces!"wavingabunchofnotepaper,likeabaton,towardthelight-floodedcircleofarmchairs.
Mr.Thompsonthuddeddownuponthecentralchair,inthemannerofgrabbingavacantseatinasubway.
ChickMorrison’sassistantswereherdingthecrowdtowardthecircleoflight.
"Ahappyfamily,"ChickMorrisonexplained,"thecountrymustseeusasabig,united,happy—What’sthematterwiththatthing?"
Theradiomusichadgoneoffabruptly,chokingonanoddlittlegaspofstatic,cutinthemiddleofaringingphrase.Itwas7:51.Heshruggedandwenton:"—happyfamily.Hurryup,boys.Takeclose-upsofMr.Thompson,first.
