Атлант расправил плечи
The John Galt line
Theywereclingingtothesideofaverticalcliff,withtheearthrollingdown,droppingaway,andgianttiersoftwistedbouldersstreamingupandshuttingoutthesun,leavingthemtospeedthroughabluishtwilight,withnosightofsoilorsky.
Thecurvesofrailbecamecoilingcirclesamongwallsthatadvancedtogrindthemofftheirsides.Butthetrackcutthroughattimesandthemountainsparted,flaringopenliketwowingsatthetipoftherail—onewinggreen,madeofverticalneedles,withwholepinesservingasthepileofasolidcarpet—theotherreddish-brown,madeofnakedrock.
Shelookeddownthroughtheopenwindowandsawthesilversideoftheenginehangingoveremptyspace.Farbelow,thethinthreadofastreamwentfallingfromledgetoledge,andthefernsthatdroopedtothewaterweretheshimmeringtopsofbirchtrees.Shesawtheengine’stailofboxcarswindingalongthefaceofagranitedrop—andmilesofcontortedstonebelow,shesawthecoilsofgreen-bluerailunwindingbehindthetrain.
Awallofrockshotupwardintheirpath,fillingthewindshield,darkeningthecab,soclosethatitseemedasiftheremnantoftimecouldnotletthemescapeit.Butsheheardthescreechofwheelsoncurve,thelightcameburstingback—andshesawanopenstretchofrailonanarrowshelf.Theshelfendedinspace.Thenoseoftheenginewasaimedstraightatthesky.Therewasnothingtostopthembuttwostripsofgreen-bluemetalstrunginacurvealongtheshelf.
