Атлант расправил плечи
The Sacred and the Profane
Thenhissmilevanishedabruptly;thewayhejerkedthecru-finwasthefirstbreakinthesmoothcompetenceofhismovements:itlookedlikeajoltofanger.
Mr.Mowenlookedattheskyline,atthebelts,thewheels,thesmoke—thesmokethatsettledheavily,peacefullyacrosstheeveningair,stretchinginalonghazeallthewaytothecityofNewYorksomewherebeyondthesunset—andhefeltreassuredbythethoughtofNewYorkinitsringofsacredfires,theringofsmokestacks,gastanks,cranesandhightensionlines.Hefeltacurrentofpowerflowingthrougheverygrimystructureofhisfamiliarstreet;helikedthefigureoftheyoungmanabovehim,therewassomethingreassuringinthewayheworked,somethingthatblendedwiththeskyline...YetMr.Mowenwonderedwhyhefeltthatacrackwasgrowingsomewhere,eatingthroughthesolid,theeternalwalls.
"Somethingoughttobedone,"saidMr.Mowen."Afriendofminewentoutofbusinesslastweek—theoilbusiness—hadacoupleofwellsdowninOklahoma—couldn’tcompetewithEllisWyatt.Itisn’tfair.Theyoughttoleavethelittlepeopleachance.TheyoughttoplacealimitonWyatt’soutput.Heshouldn’tbeallowedtoproducesomuchthathe’llswampeverybodyelseoffthemarket...IgotstuckinNewYorkyesterday,hadtoleavemycarthereandcomehomeonadamncommuters’local,couldn’tgetanygasforthecar,theysaidthere’sashortageofoilinthecity...Thingsaren’tright.
