Атлант расправил плечи
The Sacred and the Profane
Inadistantfield,beyondthetown,theysawthefigureofamanmovingslowly,contortedbytheuglinessofaphysicaleffortbeyondtheproperuseofahumanbody:hewaspushingaplowbyhand.
TheyreachedthefactoryoftheTwentiethCenturyMotorCompanytwomilesandtwohourslater.Theyknew,astheyclimbedthehill,thattheirquestwasuseless.Arustedpadlockhungonthedoorofthemainentrance,butthehugewindowswereshatteredandtheplacewasopentoanyone,tothewoodchucks,therabbitsandthedriedleavesthatlayindriftsinside.
Thefactoryhadbeenguttedlongago.Thegreatpiecesofmachineryhadbeenmovedoutbysomecivilizedmeans—theneatholesoftheirbasesstillremainedintheconcreteofthefloor.Theresthadgonetorandomlooters.Therewasnothingleft,exceptrefusewhichtheneediesttramphadfoundworthless,pilesoftwisted,rustedscraps,ofboards,plasterandglasssplinters—andthesteelstairways,builttolastandlasting,risingintrimspiralstotheroof.
Theystoppedinthegreathallwherearayoflightfelldiagonallyfromagapintheceiling,andtheechoesoftheirstepsrangaroundthem,dyingfarawayinrowsofemptyrooms.Abirddartedfromamongthesteelraftersandwentinahissingstreakofwingsoutintothesky,"We’dbetterlookthroughit,justincase,"saidDagny."YoutaketheshopsandI’lltaketheannexes.Let’sdoitasfastaspossible.
