Атлант расправил плечи
The Sacred and the Profane
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"Anyforacartodrivethrough?"
"Maybe."
"Well,whichwouldbethebestroadtotake?"
"Idon’tknow."
Throughtheopendoor,theycouldseetheinteriorofherhouse.
Therewasauselessgasstove,itsovenstuffedwithrags,servingasachestofdrawers.Therewasastovebuiltofstonesinacorner,withafewlogsburningunderanoldkettle,andlongstreaksofsootrisingupthewall.Awhiteobjectlayproppedagainstthelegsofatable:itwasaporcelainwashbowl,tornfromthewallofsomebathroom,filledwithwiltedcabbages.Atallowcandlestoodinabottleonthetable.Therewasnopaintleftonthefloor;itsboardswerescrubbedtoasoggygraythatlookedlikethevisualexpressionofthepaininthebonesofthepersonwhohadbentandscrubbedandlostthebattleagainstthegrimenowsoakedintothegrainoftheboards.
Abroodofraggedchildrenhadgatheredatthedoorbehindthewoman,silently,onebyone.Theystaredatthecar,notwiththebrightcuriosityofchildren,butwiththetensionofsavagesreadytovanishatthefirstsignofdanger.
"Howmanymilesisittothefactory?"askedRearden.
"Tenmiles,"saidthewoman,andadded,"Maybefive."
"Howfaristhenexttown?"
"Thereain’tanynexttown."
"Thereareothertownssomewhere.
