Атлант расправил плечи
Wyatt’s torch
Whatdoesitmatter?Whatdoesanythingmatter?"
Onthenextcot,awhite-haired,shriveledlittletrampturnedinhissleep,moaning;anickelclatteredtotheflooroutofhisrags.GeraldStarnespickeditupandslippeditintohisownpocket.HeglancedatDagny.Thecreasesofhisfacewereamalignantsmile.
"Wanttowakehimupandstarttrouble?"heasked."Ifyoudo,I’llsaythatyou’relying."
Theill-smellingbungalow,whereshefoundIvyStarnes,stoodontheedgeoftown,bytheshoreoftheMississippi.Hangingstrandsofmossandclotsofwaxyfoliagemadethethickvegetationlookasifitweredrooling;thetoomanydraperies,hanginginthestagnantairofasmallroom,hadthesamelook.ThesmellcamefromundustedcornersandfromincenseburninginsilverjarsatthefeetofcontortedOrientaldeities.IvyStarnessatonapillowlikeabaggyBuddha.Hermouthwasatightlittlecrescent,thepetulantmouthofachilddemandingadulation—onthespreading,pallidfaceofawomanpastfifty.Hereyesweretwolifelesspuddlesofwater.Hervoicehadtheeven,drippingmonotoneofrain:"Ican’tanswerthekindofquestionsyou’reasking,mygirl.Theresearchlaboratory?Theengineers?WhyshouldIrememberanythingaboutthem?Itwasmyfatherwhowasconcernedwithsuchmatters,notI.Myfatherwasanevilmanwhocaredfornothingbutbusiness.Hehadnotimeforlove,onlyformoney.MybrothersandIlivedonadifferentplane.
