Атлант расправил плечи
The Sacred and the Profane
Behindhim,theconveyorbeltkeptrisingandclatteringagainstthesky.
Fourdistantsmokestacksstoodlikeflagpoles,withcoilsofsmokeweavingslowlyaboutthem,likelongbannersathalf-mastinthereddishglowoftheevening.
Mr.Mowenhadlivedwitheverysmokestackofthatskylinesincethedaysofhisfatherandgrandfather.Hehadseentheconveyorbeltfromhisofficewindowforthirtyyears.ThattheQuinnBallBearingCompanyshouldvanishfromacrossthestreethadseemedinconceivable;hehadknownaboutQuinn’sdecisionandhadnotbelievedit;orrather,hehadbelieveditashebelievedanywordsheheardorspoke:assoundsthatborenofixedrelationtophysicalreality.Nowheknewthatitwasreal.Hestoodbytheflatcarsonthesidingasifhestillhadachancetostopthem.
"Itisn’tright,"hesaid;hewasspeakingtotheskylineatlarge,buttheyoungmanabovewastheonlypartofitthatcouldhearhim.
"That’snotthewayitwasinmyfather’stime.I’mnotabigshot.Idon’twanttofightanybody.What’sthematterwiththeworld?"
Therewasnoanswer.
"Nowyou,forinstance—aretheytakingyoualongtoColorado?"
"Me?No.Idon’tworkhere.I’mjusttransientlabor.Justpickedupthisjobhelpingtolugthestuffout."
"Well,whereareyougoingtogowhentheymoveaway?"
"Haven’tanyidea.
