Атлант расправил плечи
The John Galt line
Onthecrestofadistanthill,shesawacrowdofpeople,theirarmsswingingagainstthesky.Thegrayhousesofavillagewerescatteredthroughavalleybelow,asifdroppedthereonceandforgotten;therooflinesslanted,sagging,andtheyearshadwashedawaythecolorofthewalls.Perhapsgenerationshadlivedthere,withnothingtomarkthepassageoftheirdaysbutthemovementofthesunfromeasttowest.
Now,thesemenhadclimbedthehilltoseeasilver-headedcometcutthroughtheirplainslikethesoundofabuglethroughalongweightofsilence.
Ashousesbegantocomemorefrequently,closertothetrack,shesawpeopleatthewindows,ontheporches,ondistantroofs.Shesawcrowdsblockingtheroadsatgradecrossings.Theroadswentsweepingpastlikethespokesofafan,andshecouldnotdistinguishhumanfigures,onlytheirarmsgreetingthetrainlikebrancheswavinginthewindofitsspeed.Theystoodundertheswingingredlightsofwarningsignals,underthesignssaying;"Stop.Look.Listen."
Thestationpastwhichtheyflew,astheywentthroughatownatahundredmilesanhour,wasaswayingsculptureofpeoplefromplatformtoroof.Shecaughttheflickerofwavingarms,ofhatstossedintheair,ofsomethingflungagainstthesideoftheengine,whichwasabunchofflowers.
