Атлант расправил плечи
The Sacred and the Profane
Ashellofconcrete,whichhadbeenaschoolhouse,stoodontheoutskirts;itlookedlikeaskull,withtheemptysocketsofglasslesswindows,withafewstrandsofhairstillclingingtoit,intheshapeofbrokenwires.
Beyondthetown,onadistanthill,stoodthefactoryoftheTwentiethCenturyMotorCompany.Itswalls,rooflinesandsmokestackslookedtrim,impregnablelikeafortress.Itwouldhaveseemedintactbutforasilverwatertank:thewatertankwastippedsidewise.
Theysawnotraceofaroadtothefactoryinthetangledmilesoftreesandhillsides.Theydrovetothedoorofthefirsthouseinsightthatshowedafeeblesignalofrisingsmoke.Thedoorwasopen.Anoldwomancameshufflingoutatthesoundofthemotor.Shewasbentandswollen,barefooted,dressedinagarmentoffloursacking.Shelookedatthecarwithoutastonishment,withoutcuriosity;itwastheblankstareofabeingwhohadlostthecapacitytofeelanythingbutexhaustion.
"Canyoutellmethewaytothefactory?"askedRearden.
Thewomandidnotansweratonce;shelookedasifshewouldbeunabletospeakEnglish."Whatfactory?"sheasked.
Reardenpointed."Thatone."
"It’sclosed."
"Iknowit’sclosed.Butisthereanywaytogetthere?"
"Idon’tknow."
"Isthereanysortofroad?"
"There’sroadsinthewoods.
