Атлант расправил плечи
The Egoist
Three-sixty-seven—shethought,lookingforaninvisibleshapeahead,amongtheangularformsoftenements—three-sixty-seven...thatiswherehelives...ifhelivesatall...Hercalm,herdetachmentandtheconfidenceofherstepscamefromthecertaintythatthiswasan"if"withwhichshecouldnotexistanylonger.
Shehadexistedwithitfortendays—andthenightsbehindherwereasingleprogressionthathadbroughthertothisnight,asifthemomentumnowdrivingherstepswerethesoundofherownstepsstillringing,unanswered,inthetunnelsoftheTerminal.Shehadsearchedforhimthroughthetunnels,shehadwalkedforhours,nightafternight—thehoursoftheshifthehadonceworked—throughtheundergroundpassagesandplatformsandshopsandeverytwistofabandonedtracks,askingnoquestionsofanyone,offeringnoexplanationsofherpresence.Shehadwalked,withnosenseoffearorhope,movedbyafeelingofdesperateloyaltythatwasalmostafeelingofpride.
Therootofthatfeelingwasthemomentswhenshehadstoppedinsuddenastonishmentinsomedarksubterraneancornerandhadheardthewordshalf-statedinhermind:Thisismyrailroad—asshelookedatavaultvibratingtothesoundofdistantwheels;thisismylife—asshefelttheclotoftension,whichwasthestoppedandthesuspendedwithinherself;thisismylove—asshethoughtofthemanwho,perhaps,wassomewhereinthosetunnels.Therecanbenoconflictamongthesethree...whatamIdoubting?...
