Атлант расправил плечи
The Egoist
Itwashishandthatopenedthedoor,butthesuddencontrastoflightandsoundmadeitseemasifthedoorwereflungopenbyanexplosion:thelightcamefromthreehundredbulbsintheblazingchandeliersofthegrandballroomoftheWayne-FalklandHotel;thesoundwastheapplauseoffivehundredpeople.
ChickMorrisonledthewaytothespeakers’tableraisedonaplatformabovethetablesfillingtheroom.Thepeopleseemedtoknow,withoutannouncement,thatofthetwofiguresfollowinghim,itwasthetall,slendermanwiththegold-copperhairthattheywereapplauding.Hisfacehadthesamequalityasthevoicetheyhadheardontheradio:calm,confident—andoutofreach.
TheseatreservedforGaltwastheplaceofhonorinthecenterofthelongtable,withMr.Thompsonwaitingforhimathisrightandthemuscularmanslippingskillfullyintotheseatathisleft,notrelinquishinghisarmorthepressureofthemuzzle.Thejewelsonthenakedshouldersofwomencarriedtheglitterofthechandelierstotheshadowsofthetablescrowdedagainstthedistantwalls;thesevereblack-andwhiteofthemen’sfiguresrescuedtheroom’sstyleofsolemnlyregalluxuryfromthediscordantslashesmadebynewscameras,microphonesandadormantarrayoftelevisionequipment.Thecrowdwasonitsfeet,applauding.Mr.ThompsonwassmilingandwatchingGalt’sface,withtheeager,anxiouslookofanadultwaitingforachild’sreactiontoaspectacularlygenerousgift.
