Атлант расправил плечи
The John Galt line
Thestepsrolledintoadistantpast,andwhentheydied,thesilencehadthequalityofasolitudethathadlastedforalongtime,asifnopersonwereleftanywhereinreach.
Shedidnotturntothedoorofherroom.Hedidnotmove.Attheleveloftheirfeet,therewasnothingbutathinrailingandaspreadofspace.Angulartiersdescendedbelow,withshadowsrepeatingthesteeltraceryofderricks,criss-crossingsharp,blacklinesonpatchesofglowingrock.Afewlights,whiteandred,trembledintheclearair,likedropsofraincaughtontheedgesofsteelgirders.Farinthedistance,threesmalldropsweregreen,strunginalinealongtheTaggarttrack.
Beyondthem,attheendofspace,atthefootofawhitecurve,hungawebbedrectanglewhichwasthebridge.
Shefeltarhythmwithoutsoundormovement,asenseofbeatingtension,asifthewheelsoftheJohnGaltLinewerestillspeedingon.
Slowly,inanswerandinresistancetoanunspokensummons,sheturnedandlookedathim.
Thelookshesawonhisfacemadeherknowforthefirsttimethatshehadknownthiswouldbetheendofthejourney.Thatlookwasnotasmenaretaughttorepresentit,itwasnotamatterofloosemuscles,hanginglipsandmindlesshunger.Thelinesofhisfacewerepulledtight,givingitapeculiarpurity,asharpprecisionofform,makingitcleanandyoung.Hismouthwastaut,thelipsfaintlydrawninward,stressingtheoutlineofitsshape.
