Атлант расправил плечи
The Egoist
Butthereweretoomanyentrancestocoverandnoplacewhereshecouldwatchwhileremainingunseen—shehadstoodinthesoggytwilightonasidewalkglitteringwithrain,pressedtothewallofawarehouse,hercoatcollarraisedtohercheekbones,raindropsfallingoffthebrimofherhat—shehadstoodexposedtothesightofthestreet,knowingthattheglancesofthemenwhopassedherwereglancesofrecognitionandastonishment,knowingthathervigilwastoodangerouslyobvious.IftherewasaJohnGaltamongthem,someonecouldguessthenatureofherquest...iftherewasnoJohnGaltamongthem...iftherewasnoJohnGaltintheworld,shethought,thennodangerexisted—andnoworld.
Nodangerandnoworld,shethought—asshewalkedthroughthestreetsoftheslumstowardahousewiththenumber"367,"whichwasorwasnothishome.Shewonderedwhetherthiswaswhatonefeltwhileawaitingaverdictofdeath:nofear,noanger,noconcern,nothingbuttheicydetachmentoflightwithoutheatorofcognitionwithoutvalues.
Atincanclatteredfromunderhertoes,andthesoundwentbeatingtooloudlyandtoolong,asifagainstthewallsofanabandonedcity.
Thestreetsseemedrazedbyexhaustion,notbyrest,asifthemeninsidethewallswerenotasleep,buthadcollapsed.Hewouldbehomefromworkatthishour,shethought...ifheworked...ifhestillhadahome...
