Атлант расправил плечи
The Sacred and the Profane
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"Idon’tliketoletyouwanderaroundalone.Idon’tknowhowsafetheyare,anyofthosefloorsorstairways."
"Oh,nonsense!Icanfindmywayaroundafactory—orinawreckingcrew.Let’sgetitoverwith.Iwanttogetoutofhere."
Whenshewalkedthroughthesilentyards—wheresteelbridgesstillhungoverhead,tracinglinesofgeometricalperfectionacrossthesky—heronlywishwasnottoseeanyofit,butsheforcedherselftolook.
Itwaslikehavingtoperformanautopsyonthebodyofone’slove.Shemovedherglanceasanautomaticsearchlight,herteethclampedtighttogether.Shewalkedrapidly—therewasnonecessitytopauseanywhere.
Itwasinaroomofwhathadbeenthelaboratorythatshestopped.Itwasacoilofwirethatmadeherstop.Thecoilprotrudedfromapileofjunk.Shehadneverseenthatparticulararrangementofwires,yetitseemedfamiliar,asifittouchedthehintofsomememory,faintandverydistant.Shereachedforthecoil,butcouldnotmoveit:itseemedtobepartofsomeobjectburiedinthepile.
Theroomlookedasifithadbeenanexperimentallaboratory—ifshewasrightinjudgingthepurposeofthetornremnantsshesawonthewalls:agreatmanyelectricaloutlets,bitsofheavycable,leadconduits,glasstubing,built-incabinetswithoutshelvesordoors.
