Атлант расправил плечи
The Chain
Therewasastrongwindandagraylightsqueezedfromamongtheclouds.Inthatlight,hesawthebrown-redofrust,likedeadblood,onthesteelofthegiantcranes—andbright,green,livingweeds,likegorgedcannibals,growingoverpilesofbrokenglassatthefootofwallsmadeofemptyframes.Atagateinthedistance,hesawtheblacksilhouettesofmen.Theyweretheunemployedfromtherottinghovelsofwhathadoncebeenaprosperoustown.Theystoodsilently,lookingattheglitteringcarhehadleftatthegateofthemills;theywonderedwhetherthemanonthehillwastheHankReardenthatpeopleweretalkingabout,andwhetheritwastruethatthemillsweretobereopened."Thehistoricalcycleofsteel-makinginPennsylvaniaisobviouslyrunningdown,"anewspaperhadsaid,"andexpertsagreethatHenryRearden’sventureintosteelishopeless.YoumaysoonwitnessthesensationalendofthesensationalHenryRearden."
Thatwastenyearsago.Tonight,thecoldwindonhisfacefeltlikethewindofthatday.Heturnedtolookback.Theredglowofthemillsbreathedinthesky,asightaslife-givingasasunrise.
Thesehadbeenhisstops,thestationswhichanexpresshadreachedandpassed.Herememberednothingdistinctoftheyearsbetweenthem;theyearswereblurred,likeastreakofspeed.
