Атлант расправил плечи
The Sacred and the Profane
"Hank,whatifanythinghappenstoTedNielsen?"sheaskedsuddenly,astheydroveinsilence.
"Whyshouldanythinghappentohim?"
"Idon’tknow,but...well,therewasDwightSanders.Hevanished.UnitedLocomotivesisdonefornow.AndtheotherplantsareinnoconditiontoproduceDiesels.I’vestoppedlisteningtopromises.And...andofwhatuseisarailroadwithoutmotivepower?"
"Ofwhatuseisanything,forthatmatter,withoutit?"
Theleavessparkled,swayinginthewind.Theyspreadformiles,fromgrasstobrushtotrees,withthemotionandallthecolorsoffire;theyseemedtocelebrateanaccomplishedpurpose,burninginunchecked,untouchedabundance.
Reardensmiled."There’ssomethingtobesaidforthewilderness.
I’mbeginningtolikeit.Newcountrythatnobody’sdiscovered."Shenoddedgaily."It’sgoodsoil—lookatthewaythingsgrow.I’dclearthatbrushandI’dbuilda—"
Andthentheystoppedsmiling.Thecorpsetheysawintheweedsbytheroadsidewasarustycylinderwithbitsofglass—theremnantofagas-stationpump.
Itwastheonlythingleftvisible.Thefewcharredposts,theslabofconcreteandthesparkleofglassdust—whichhadbeenagasstation—wereswallowedinthebrush,nottobenoticedexceptbyacarefulglance,nottobeseenatallinanotheryear.
Theylookedaway.
