Атлант расправил плечи

           Hewasthestation’schiefengineer,anditwasoddtoseealookofprimitiveterrorstrugglingagainsthisremnantofcivilizedcontrol.

           "Mr.Thompson,"hesaid,"we...wemighthavetodelaythebroadcast."

           "What?"criedMr.Thompson.

           Thehandofthedialstoodat7:58.

           "We’retryingtofixit,Mr.Thompson,we’retryingtofindoutwhatitis...butwemightnotbeontimeand—"

           "Whatareyoutalkingabout?Whathappened?"

           "We’retryingtolocatethe—"

           "Whathappened?"

           "Idon’tknow!But...We...wecan’tgetontheair,Mr.Thompson."

           Therewasamomentofsilence,thenMr.Thompsonasked,hisvoiceunnaturallylow,"Areyoucrazy?"

           "Imustbe.IwishIwere.Ican’tmakeitout.Thestationisdead."

           "Mechanicaltrouble?"yelledMr.Thompson,leapingtohisfeet.

           "Mechanicaltrouble,Goddamnyou,atatimelikethis?Ifthat’showyourunthisstation—"

           Thechiefengineershookhisheadslowly,inthemannerofanadultwhoisreluctanttofrightenachild."It’snotthisstation,Mr.Thompson,"hesaidsoftly."It’severystationinthecountry,asfaraswe’vebeenabletocheck.Andthereisnomechanicaltrouble.Neitherherenorelsewhere.Theequipmentisinorder,inperfectorder,andtheyallreportthesame,but...