Атлант расправил плечи
The Sacred and the Profane
Hedidnotwanttoseepeople.HekeptseeingtheeyesofthemenoftheBoardwhentheyspokeabouthisgreatness:asly,filmylookthatheldcontemptforhimand,moreterrifyingly,forthemselves.
Hewalked,headdown,aneedleofrainprickingtheskinofhisneckonceinawhile.Helookedawaywheneverhepassedanewsstand.ThepapersseemedtoshriekathimthenameoftheJohnGaltLine,andanothernamewhichhedidnotwanttohear:RagnarDanneskjold.AshipboundforthePeople’sStateofNorwaywithanEmergencyGiftcargoofmachinetoolshadbeenseizedbyRagnarDanneskjoldlastnight.Thatstorydisturbedhiminsomepersonalmannerwhichhecouldnotexplain.ThefeelingseemedtohavesomequalityincommonwiththethingshefeltabouttheJohnGaltLine.
It’sbecausehehadacold,hethought;hewouldn’tfeelthiswayifhedidn’thaveacold;amancouldn’tbeexpectedtobeintopformwhenhehadacold—hecouldn’thelpit—whatdidtheyexpecthimtodotonight,singanddance?—hesnappedthequestionangrilyattheunknownjudgesofhisunwitnessedmood.Hefumbledforhishandkerchiefagain,cursedanddecidedthathe’dbetterstopsomewheretobuysomepapertissues.
Acrossthesquareofwhathadoncebeenabusyneighborhood,hesawthelightedwindowsofadimestore,stillopenhopefullyatthislatehour.There’sanotheronethatwillgooutofbusinessprettysoon,hethoughtashecrossedthesquare;thethoughtgavehimpleasure.
