Атлант расправил плечи
The Generator
Thelonglinesofhisbody,runningfromhisanklestotheflathips,totheangleofthewaist,tothestraightshoulders,lookedlikeastatueofancientGreece,sharingthatstatue’smeaning,butstylizedtoalonger,lighter,moreactiveformandagaunterstrength,suggestingmorerestlessanenergy—thebody,notofachariotdriver,butofabuilderofairplanes.AndasthemeaningofastatueofancientGreece—thestatueofmanasagod—clashedwiththespiritofthiscentury’shalls,sohisbodyclashedwithacellardevotedtoprehistoricalactivities.Theclashwasthegreater,becauseheseemedtobelongwithelectricwires,withstainlesssteel,withprecisioninstruments,withtheleversofacontrolboard.Perhaps—thiswasthethoughtmostfiercelyresistedandmostdeeplyburiedatthebottomofhiswatcherssensations,thethoughttheyknewonlyasadiffusedhatredandanunfocusedterror—perhapsitwastheabsenceofsuchstatuesfromthemodernworldthathadtransformedageneratorintoanoctopusandbroughtabodysuchashisintoitstentacles.
"Iunderstandyou’resomesortofelectricalexpert,"saidFerris,andchuckled."Soarewe—don’tyouthinkso?"
Twosoundsansweredhiminthesilence:thedroneofthegeneratorandthebeatingofGalt’sheart.
"Themixedseries!"orderedFerris,wavingonefingeratthemechanic.
Theshocksnowcameatirregular,unpredictableintervals,oneafteranotherorminutesapart.
