Атлант расправил плечи
The Generator
Stadlerleapedtostophim—butMeigsshovedhimasidewithonearm,gaveagulpoflaughteratthesightofStadlerfallingtothefloor,and,withtheotherarm,yankedaleveroftheXylophone.
Thecrashofsound—thescreechingcrashofrippedmetalandofpressurescollidingonconflictingcircuits,thesoundofamonsterturninguponitself—washeardonlyinsidethestructure.Nosoundwasheardoutside.Outside,thestructuremerelyroseintotheair,suddenlyandsilently,crackedopenintoafewlargepieces,shotsomehissingstreaksofbluelighttotheskyandcamedownasapileofrubble.Withinthecircleofaradiusofahundredmiles,enclosingpartsoffourstates,telegraphpolesfelllikematchsticks,farmhousescollapsedintochips,citybuildingswentdownasifslashedandmincedbyasinglesecond’sblow,withnotimeforasoundtobeheardbythetwistedbodiesofthevictims—and,onthecircle’speriphery,halfwayacrosstheMississippi,theengineandthefirstsixcarsofapassengertrainflewasashowerofmetalintothewateroftheriver,alongwiththewesternspansoftheTaggartBridge,cutinhalf.
OnthesiteofwhathadoncebeenProjectX,nothingremainedaliveamongtheruins—except,forsomeendlessminuteslonger,ahuddleoftornfleshandscreamingpainthathadoncebeenagreatmind.
