Атлант расправил плечи
Wyatt’s torch
Intheclean,rationalworldoftheundergroundtunnels,nothingwasofsourgentanimportanceasthetaskoffindingthemanwhomadethemotor.Shethought:CouldshedelayitinordertoarguewithOrrenBoyle?—toreasonwithMr.Mowen?—topleadwithBertramScudder?Shesawthemotor,completed,builtintoanenginethatpulledatrainoftwohundredcarsdownatrackofReardenMetalattwohundredmilesanhour.Whenthevisionwaswithinherreach,withinthepossible,wasshetogiveitupandspendhertimebargainingaboutsixtymilesandsixtycars?Shecouldnotdescendtoanexistencewhereherbrainwouldexplodeunderthepressureofforcingitselfnottooutdistanceincompetence.Shecouldnotfunctiontotheruleof:Pipedown—keepdown—slowdown—don’tdoyourbest,itisnotwanted!
Sheturnedresolutelyandleftthevault,totakethetrainforWashington.
Itseemedtoher,asshelockedthesteeldoor,thatsheheardafaintechoofsteps.Sheglancedupanddownthedarkcurveofthetunnel.
Therewasnooneinsight;therewasnothingbutastringofbluelightsglisteningonwallsofdampgranite.
Reardencouldnotfightthegangswhodemandedthelaws.Thechoicewastofightthemortokeephismillsopen.Hehadlosthissupplyofironore.Hehadtofightonebattleortheother.Therewasnotimeforboth.
Hehadfound,onhisreturn,thatascheduledshipmentoforehadnotbeendelivered.
