Атлант расправил плечи
The John Galt line
Asthemilesclickedpastthem,thetownswentby,withthestationsatwhichtheydidnotstop,withthecrowdsofpeoplewhohadcomeonlytosee,tocheerandtohope.Shesawgarlandsofflowersunderthesootedeavesofoldstationbuildings,andbuntingofred-white-and-blueonthetime-eatenwalls.Itwaslikethepicturesshehadseen—andenvied—inschoolbookhistoriesofrailroads,fromtheerawhenpeoplegatheredtogreetthefirstrunofatrain.ItwasliketheagewhenNatTaggartmovedacrossthecountry,andthestopsalonghiswayweremarkedbymeneagerforthesightofachievement.Thatage,shehadthought,wasgone;generationshadpassed,withnoeventtogreetanywhere,withnothingtoseebutthecrackslengtheningyearbyyearonthewallsbuiltbyNatTaggart.Yetmencameagain,astheyhadcomeinhistime,drawnbythesameresponse.
SheglancedatRearden.Hestoodagainstthewall,unawareofthecrowds,indifferenttoadmiration.Hewaswatchingtheperformanceoftrackandtrainwithanexpert’sintensityofprofessionalinterest;hisbearingsuggestedthathewouldkickaside,asirrelevant,anythoughtsuchas"Theylikeit,"whenthethoughtringinginhismindwas"Itworks!"
Histallfigureinthesinglegrayofslacksandshirtlookedasifhisbodywerestrippedforaction.
