Атлант расправил плечи
The Sacred and the Profane
Theyputasideafewbitsofmetalthatcouldhavebelongedtothemotor,buttheseweretoosmalltobeofvalue.Themotorlookedasifpartsofithadbeenrippedoff,perhapsbysomeonewhothoughthecouldputthemtosomecustomaryuse.Whathadremainedwastoounfamiliartointerestanybody.
Onachingknees,herpalmsspreadflatuponthegrittyfloor,shefelttheangertremblingwithinher,thehurting,helplessangerthatanswersthesightofdesecration.Shewonderedwhethersomeone’sdiapershungonaclotheslinemadeofthemotor’smissingwires—whetheritswheelshadbecomearopepulleyoveracommunalwell—whetheritscylinderwasnowapotcontaininggeraniumsonthewindowsillofthesweetheartofthemanwiththewhiskeybottle.
Therewasaremnantoflightonthehill,butabluehazewasmovinginuponthevalleys,andtheredandgoldoftheleaveswasspreadingtotheskyinstripsofsunset.
Itwasdarkwhentheyfinished.Sheroseandleanedagainsttheemptyframeofthewindowforatouchofcoolaironherforehead.Theskywasdarkblue."Itcouldhavesetthewholecountryinmotionandonfire."Shelookeddownatthemotor.Shelookedoutatthecountry.Shemoanedsuddenly,hitbyasinglelongshudder,anddroppedherheadonherarm,standingpressedtotheframeofthewindow.
"What’sthematter?"heasked.
Shedidnotanswer.
Helookedout
