Атлант расправил плечи

           Nowhe’sreadytogoahead,buthecan’tfindthetools.Therearenomachinetoolstobuy,notanywhere,notatanyprice.He’sgettingnothingbutpromisesanddelays.He’scombingthecountry,lookingforoldjunktoreclaim,fromclosedfactories.Ifhedoesn’tstartsoon—"

           "Hewill.Who’sgoingtostophimnow?"

           "Hank,"shesaidsuddenly,"couldwegotoaplaceI’dliketosee?"

           "Sure,anywhere.Whichplace?"

           "It’sinWisconsin.Thereusedtobeagreatmotorcompanythere,inmyfather’stime.Wehadabranchlineservingit,butweclosedtheline—aboutsevenyearsago—whentheyclosedthefactory.Ithinkit’soneofthoseblightedareasnow.Maybethere’sstillsomemachinerylefttherethatTedNielsencoulduse.Itmighthavebeenoverlooked—theplaceisforgottenandthere’snotransportationtoitatall."

           "I’llfindit.Whatwasthenameofthefactory?"

           "TheTwentiethCenturyMotorCompany."

           "Oh,ofcourse!Thatwasoneofthebestmotorfirmsinmyyouth,perhapsthebest.Iseemtorememberthattherewassomethingoddaboutthewayitwentoutofbusiness...can’trecallwhatitwas."

           Ittookthemthreedaysofinquiries,buttheyfoundthebleached,abandonedroad—andnowtheyweredrivingthroughtheyellowleavesthatglitteredlikeaseaofgoldcoins,totheTwentiethCenturyMotorCompany.