Атлант расправил плечи

           Rearden,"saidFrancisco,hisvoicesolemnlycalm,"ifyousawAtlas,thegiantwhoholdstheworldonhisshoulders,ifyousawthathestood,bloodrunningdownhischest,hiskneesbuckling,hisarmstremblingbutstilltryingtoholdtheworldaloftwiththelastofhisstrength,andthegreaterhisefforttheheaviertheworldboredownuponhisshoulders—whatwouldyoutellhimtodo?"

           "I...don’tknow.What...couldhedo?Whatwouldyoutellhim?"

           "Toshrug."

           Theclatterofthemetalcameinaflowofirregularsoundswithoutdiscerniblerhythm,notliketheactionofamechanism,butasifsomeconsciousimpulsewerebehindeverysudden,tearingrisethatwentupandcrashed,scatteringintothefaintmoanofgears.Theglassofthewindowstinkledonceinawhile.

           Francisco’seyeswerewatchingReardenasifhewereexaminingthecourseofbulletsonabatteredtarget.Thecoursewashardtotrace:thegauntfigureontheedgeofthedeskwaserect,thecoldblueeyesshowednothingbuttheintensityofaglancefixeduponagreatdistance,onlytheinflexiblemouthbetrayedalinedrawnbypain.

           "Goon,"saidReardenwitheffort,"continue.Youhaven’tfinished,haveyou?"

           "Ihavebarelybegun."Francisco’svoicewashard.

           "What...areyoudrivingat?"

           "You’llknowitbeforeI’mthrough.