Атлант расправил плечи
The Sacred and the Profane
Shewasonherhandsandknees,crawlingoverthewreckage,seizingeverypieceofpaperinsight,flingingitaway,searchingfurther.Herhandswereshaking.
Shefoundpartofwhatshehopedhadremainedinexistence.Itwasathinsheafoftypewrittenpagesclampedtogether—theremnantofamanuscript.Itsbeginningandendweregone;thebitsofpaperleftundertheclampshowedthethicknumberofpagesithadoncecontained.Thepaperwasyellowedanddry.Themanuscripthadbeenadescriptionofthemotor.
Fromtheemptyenclosureoftheplant’spowerhouse,Reardenheardhervoicescreaming,"Hank!"Itsoundedlikeascreamofterror.
Heraninthedirectionofthevoice.Hefoundherstandinginthemiddleofaroom,herhandsbleeding,herstockingstorn,hersuitsmearedwithdust,abunchofpapersclutchedinherhand.
"Hank,whatdoesthislooklike?"sheasked,pointingatanoddpieceofwreckageatherfeet;hervoicehadtheintense,obsessedtoneofapersonstunnedbyashock,cutofffromreality."Whatdoesitlooklike?"
"Areyouhurt?Whathappened?"
"No!...Oh,nevermind,don’tlookatme!I’mallright.Lookatthis.Doyouknowwhatthatis?"
"Whatdidyoudotoyourself?"
"Ihadtodigitoutofthere.I’mallright."
"You’reshaking."
"Youwill,too,inamoment.Hank!Lookatit.
