The Aristocracy of pull

           Thecalendarintheskybeyondthewindowofherofficesaid:September2.Dagnyleanedwearilyacrossherdesk.Thefirstlighttosnaponattheapproachofduskwasalwaystheraythathitthecalendar;whenthewhite-glowingpageappearedabovetheroofs,itblurredthecity,hasteningthedarkness.

           Shehadlookedatthatdistantpageeveryeveningofthemonthsbehindher.Yourdaysarenumbered,ithadseemedtosay—asifitweremarkingaprogressiontowardsomethingitknew,butshedidn’t.Once,ithadclockedherracetobuildtheJohnGaltLine;nowitwasclockingherraceagainstanunknowndestroyer.

           Onebyone,themenwhohadbuiltnewtownsinColorado,haddepartedintosomesilentunknown,fromwhichnovoiceorpersonhadyetreturned.Thetownstheyhadleftweredying.Someofthefactoriestheybuilthadremainedownerlessandlocked;othershadbeenseizedbythelocalauthorities;themachinesinbothstoodstill.

           ShehadfeltasifadarkmapofColoradowerespreadbeforeherlikeatrafficcontrolpanel,withafewlightsscatteredthroughitsmountains.Oneafteranother,thelightshadgoneout.Oneafteranother,themenhadvanished.