Атлант расправил плечи
The Sacred and the Profane
UncoilingfromamongthecurvesofWisconsin’shills,thehighwaywastheonlyevidenceofhumanlabor,aprecariousbridgestretchedacrossaseaofbrush,weedsandtrees.Thesearolledsoftly,inspraysofyellowandorange,withafewredjetsshootinguponthehillsides,withpoolsofremnantgreeninthehollows,underapurebluesky.Amongthecolorsofapicturepostcard,thecar’shoodlookedliketheworkofajeweler,withthesunsparklingonitschromiumsteel,anditsblackenamelreflectingthesky.
Dagnyleanedagainstthecornerofthesidewindow,herlegsstretchedforward;shelikedthewide,comfortablespaceofthecar’sseatandthewarmthofthesunonhershoulders;shethoughtthatthecountrysidewasbeautiful.
"WhatI’dliketosee,"saidRearden,"isabillboard."
Shelaughed:hehadansweredhersilentthought."Sellingwhatandtowhom?Wehaven’tseenacarorahouseforanhour."
"That’swhatIdon’tlikeaboutit."Hebentforwardalittle,hishandsonthewheel;hewasfrowning."Lookatthatroad."
Thelongstripofconcretewasbleachedtothepowderygrayofbonesleftonadesert,asifsunandsnowshadeatenawaythetracesoftires,oilandcarbon,thelustrouspolishofmotion.Greenweedsrosefromtheangularcracksoftheconcrete.Noonehadusedtheroadorrepaireditformanyyears;butthecrackswerefew.
"It’sagoodroad,"saidRearden."Itwasbuilttolast.
