Атлант расправил плечи

           Thompson,"saidMouch,choking,"I...I’mafraidhe’samanwho’snotopentoadeal."

           "There’snosuchthing,"saidMr.Thompson.

           Acoldwindrattledthebrokensignsoverthewindowsofabandonedshops,inthestreetoutsidetheradiostation.Thecityseemedabnormallyquiet.Thedistantrumbleofthetrafficsoundedlowerthanusualandmadethewindsoundlouder.Emptysidewalksstretchedoffintothedarkness;afewlonefiguresstoodinwhisperingclustersundertherarelights.

           EddieWillersdidnotspeakuntiltheyweremanyblocksawayfromthestation.Hestoppedabruptly,whentheyreachedadesertedsquarewherethepublicloud-speakers,whichnoonehadthoughtofturningoff,werenowbroadcastingadomesticcomedy—theshrillvoicesofahusbandandwifequarrelingoverJunior’sdates—toanemptystretchofpavementenclosedbyunlightedhousefronts.Beyondthesquare,afewdotsoflight,scatteredverticallyabovethetwentyfifth-floorlimitofthecity,suggestedadistant,risingform,whichwastheTaggartBuilding.

           Eddiestoppedandpointedatthebuilding,hisfingershaking.

           "Dagny!"hecried,thenloweredhisvoiceinvoluntarily."Dagny,"hewhispered,"Iknowhim.He...heworksthere...there..."

           Hekeptpointingatthebuildingwithincreduloushelplessness."HeworksforTaggartTranscontinental..."

           "Iknow,"sheanswered;hervoicewasalifelessmonotone.