Атлант расправил плечи
The Generator
Inthedepthofhisliquidbrain,hisemotionhadheldanotherkindofterror,drownedalongwiththeconnectionsbetweenhisbrokenchipsofwords.
Thesechipshadbeentheonlycompassdirectinghiscoursethroughfourdaysandnights—whilehedrovedowndesertedhighways,acrossacountrycollapsingintochaos,whilehedevelopedamonomaniac’scunningforobtainingillegalpurchasesofgas,whilehesnatchedrandomhoursofrestlesssleep,inobscuremotels,underassumednames...
I’mRobertStadler—hehadthought,hismindrepeatingitasaformulaofomnipotence...Toseizecontrol—hehadthought,speedingagainstthefutiletrafficlightsofhalf-abandonedtowns—speedingonthevibratingsteeloftheTaggartBridgeacrosstheMississippi—speedingpasttheoccasionalruinsoffarmsintheemptystretchesofIowa...I’llshowthem—hehadthought—letthempursue,theywon’tstopmethistime...Hehadthoughtit,eventhoughnoonehadpursuedhim—asnoonewaspursuinghimnow,butthetaillightsofhisowncarandthemotivedrownedinhismind.
Helookedathissilentradioandchuckled;thechucklehadtheemotionalqualityofafistbeingshakenatspace.It’sIwhoampractical—hethought—Ihavenochoice...Ihavenootherway...I’llshowallthoseinsolentgangsters,whoforgetthatIamRobertStadler...Theywillallcollapse,butIwon’t!...I’llsurvive!...I’llwin!...
