Атлант расправил плечи
The Sacred and the Profane
Shehadclimbedovertheplanksand,bythelightofthestreetlampthathadoncethrownastranger’sshadowacrossthepavement,shehadlookedinthroughthewindowofherformeroffice.Nothingwasleftofthegroundfloor;thepartitionshadbeentorndown,therewerebrokenpipeshangingfromtheceilingandapileofrubbleonthefloor.Therewasnothingtosee.
ShehadaskedReardenwhetherhehadcomethereonenightlastspringandstoodoutsideherwindow,fightinghisdesiretoenter.Butshehadknown,evenbeforeheanswered,thathehadnot.Shedidnottellhimwhysheaskedit.Shedidnotknowwhythatmemorystilldisturbedherattimes.
Beyondthewindowofherlivingroom,thelightedrectangleofthecalendarhunglikeasmallshippingtagintheblacksky.Itread:September2.Shesmileddefiantly,rememberingtheraceshehadrunagainstitschangingpages;therewerenodeadlinesnow,shethought,nobarriers,nothreats,nolimits.
Sheheardakeyturninginthedoorofherapartment;thiswasthesoundshehadwaitedfor,hadwantedtoheartonight.
Reardencamein,ashehadcomemanytimes,usingthekeyshehadgivenhim,assoleannouncement.Hethrewhishatandcoatdownonachairwithagesturethathadbecomefamiliar;heworetheformalblackofdinnerclothes.
"Hello,"shesaid.
