Атлант расправил плечи
The Aristocracy of pull
Hisformaldresssuitwasofgoodquality,butofacutfashionabletwentyyearsbefore,withthefaintesttingeofgreenattheseams;hehadhadfewoccasionstowearit.Hisshirtstudswereostentatiouslytoolarge,butitwasthepatheticostentationofanheirloom,intricatepiecesofold-fashionedworkmanship,thathadprobablycometohimthroughfourgenerations,likehisbusiness.
Hisfacehadtheexpressionwhich,thesedays,wasthemarkofanhonestman:anexpressionofbewilderment.Hewaslookingathiscompanion,tryinghard—conscientiously,helplessly,hopelessly—tounderstand.
Hiscompanionwasyoungerandshorter,asmallmanwithlumpyflesh,withachestthrustforwardandthethinpointsofamustachethrustup.Hewassaying,inatoneofpatronizingboredom,"Well,Idon’tknow.Allofyouarecryingaboutrisingcosts,itseemstobethestockcomplaintnowadays,it’stheusualwhineofpeoplewhoseprofitsaresqueezedalittle.Idon’tknow,we’llhavetosee,we’llhavetodecidewhetherwe’llpermityoutomakeanyprofitsornot."
ReardenglancedatFrancisco—andsawafacethatwentbeyondhisconceptionofwhatthepurityofasinglepurposecoulddotoahumancountenance:itwasthemostmercilessfaceonecouldeverbepermittedtosee.Hehadthoughtofhimselfasruthless,butheknewthathecouldnotmatchthislevel,naked,implacablelook,deadtoallfeelingbutjustice.
