Атлант расправил плечи
The Chain
Hiseyeswereclosing,whenhefelttwosoft,moistfingerstouchinghishand:PaulLarkinhadpulledachairtohissideandwasleaningoverforaprivateconversation.
"Idon’tcarewhattheindustrysaysaboutit,Hank,you’vegotagreatproductinReardenMetal,agreatproduct,itwillmakeafortune,likeeverythingyoutouch."
"Yes,"saidRearden,"itwill."
"Ijust...Ijusthopeyoudon’trunintotrouble."
"Whattrouble?"
"Oh,Idon’tknow...thewaythingsarenowadays...there’speople,who...buthowcanwetell?...anythingcanhappen...."
"Whattrouble?"
Larkinsathunched,lookingupwithhisgentle,pleadingeyes.Hisshort,plumpishfigurealwaysseemedunprotectedandincomplete,asifheneededashelltoshrinkintoattheslightesttouch.Hiswistfuleyes,hislost,helpless,appealingsmileservedassubstitutefortheshell.Thesmilewasdisarming,likethatofaboywhothrowshimselfatthemercyofanincomprehensibleuniverse.Hewasfifty-threeyearsold.
"Yourpublicrelationsaren’tanytoogood,Hank,"hesaid."You’vealwayshadabadpress."
"Sowhat?"
"You’renotpopular,Hank."
"Ihaven’theardanycomplaintsfrommycustomers."
"That’snotwhatImean.Yououghttohireyourselfagoodpressagenttosellyoutothepublic."
"Whatfor?It’ssteelthatI’mselling."
"Butyoudon’twanttohavethepublicagainstyou.Publicopinion,youknow—itcanmeanalot."
"Idon’tthinkthepublic’sagainstme.
