Атлант расправил плечи
The Chain
Hisfacewascutbyprominentcheekbonesandbyafewsharplines;theywerenotthelinesofage,hehadalwayshadthem:thishadmadehimlookoldattwenty,andyoungnow,atforty-five.Eversincehecouldremember,hehadbeentoldthathisfacewasugly,becauseitwasunyielding,andcruel,becauseitwasexpressionless.Itremainedexpressionlessnow,ashelookedatthemetal.HewasHankRearden.
Themetalcamerisingtothetopoftheladleandwentrunningoverwitharrogantprodigality.Thentheblindingwhitetricklesturnedtoglowingbrown,andinonemoreinstanttheywereblackiciclesofmetal,startingtocrumbleoff.Theslagwascrustinginthick,brownridgesthatlookedlikethecrustoftheearth.Asthecrustgrewthicker,afewcratersbrokeopen,withthewhiteliquidstillboilingwithin.
Amancameridingthroughtheair,inthecabofacraneoverhead.Hepulledaleverbythecasualmovementofonehand:steelhookscamedownonachain,seizedthehandlesoftheladle,lifteditsmoothlylikeabucketofmilk—andtwohundredtonsofmetalwentsailingthroughspacetowardarowofmoldswaitingtobefilled.
HankReardenleanedback,closinghiseyes.Hefeltthecolumntremblingwiththerumbleofthecrane.Thejobwasdone,hethought.
Aworkersawhimandgrinnedinunderstanding,likeafellowaccompliceinagreatcelebration,whoknewwhythattall,blondfigurehadhadtobepresentheretonight.Reardensmiledinanswer:itwastheonlysalutehehadreceived.
