Атлант расправил плечи
The Theme
FromOceantoOcean,forever—thoughtEddieWillers,inthemannerofarededication,ashewalkedthroughthespotlesshallsintotheheartofthebuilding,intotheofficeofJamesTaggart,PresidentofTaggartTranscontinental.
JamesTaggartsatathisdesk. Helookedlikeamanapproachingfifty,whohadcrossedintoagefromadolescence,withouttheintermediatestageofyouth. Hehadasmall,petulantmouth,andthinhairclingingtoabaldforehead. Hisposturehadalimp,decentralizedsloppiness,asifindefianceofhistall,slenderbody,abodywithaneleganceoflineintendedfortheconfidentpoiseofanaristocrat,buttransformedintothegawkinessofalout. Thefleshofhisfacewaspaleandsoft.Hiseyeswerepaleandveiled,withaglancethatmovedslowly,neverquitestopping,glidingoffandpastthingsineternalresentmentoftheirexistence. Helookedobstinateanddrained. Hewasthirty-nineyearsold.
Heliftedhisheadwithirritation,atthesoundoftheopeningdoor.
"Don’tbotherme,don’tbotherme,don’tbotherme,"saidJamesTaggart.
EddieWillerswalkedtowardthedesk.
"It’simportant,Jim,"hesaid,notraisinghisvoice.
"Allright,allright,whatisit?"
EddieWillerslookedatamaponthewalloftheoffice. Themap’scolorshadfadedundertheglass—hewondereddimlyhowmanyTaggartpresidentshadsatbeforeitandforhowmanyyears.
