Атлант расправил плечи
The John Galt line
Shesatinthefireman’schairandglancedacrossatLoganonceinawhile.Hesatslumpedforwardalittle,relaxed,onehandrestinglightlyonthethrottleasifbychance;buthiseyeswerefixedonthetrackahead.Hehadtheeaseofanexpert,soconfidentthatitseemedcasual,butitwastheeaseofatremendousconcentration,theconcentrationonone’staskthathastheruthlessnessofanabsolute.RayMcKimsatonabenchbehindthem.Reardenstoodinthemiddleofthecab.
Hestood,handsinpockets,feetapart,bracedagainstthemotion,lookingahead.Therewasnothinghecouldnowcaretoseebythesideofthetrack:hewaslookingattherail.
Ownership—shethought,glancingbackathim—weren’ttherethosewhoknewnothingofitsnatureanddoubteditsreality?No,itwasnotmadeofpapers,seals,grantsandpermissions.Thereitwas—inhiseyes.
Thesoundfillingthecabseemedpartofthespacetheywerecrossing.Itheldthelowdroneofthemotors—thesharperclickingofthemanypartsthatranginvariedcriesofmetal—andthehigh,thinchimesoftremblingglasspanes.
Thingsstreakedpast—awatertank,atree,ashanty,agrainsilo.
Theyhadawindshield-wipermotion:theywererising,describingacurveanddroppingback.Thetelegraphwiresranaracewiththetrain,risingandfallingfrompoletopole,inanevenrhythm,likethecardiographrecordofasteadyheartbeatwrittenacrossthesky.
