Атлант расправил плечи

           Itpouredalongtheground,branchingoffatrandominsuddenstreaks;itcutthroughadankfogofsteamwithabrightsuggestionofmorning.

           Itwasliquidiron,andwhatthescreamofthealarmproclaimedwasabreak-out.

           Thechargeofthefurnacehadbeenhungupand,breaking,hadblownthetap-holeopen.Thefurnaceforemanlayknockedunconscious,thewhiteflowspurted,slowlytearingtheholewider,andmenwerestrugglingwithsand,hoseandfireclaytostoptheglowingstreaksthatspreadinaheavy,glidingmotion,eatingeverythingontheirwayintojetsofacridsmoke.

           InthefewmomentswhichReardenneededtograspthesightandnatureofthedisaster,hesawaman’sfigurerisingsuddenlyatthefootofthefurnace,afigureoutlinedbytheredglarealmostasifitstoodinthepathofthetorrent,hesawtheswingofawhiteshirtsleevedarmthatroseandflungablackobjectintothesourceofthespurtingmetal.ItwasFranciscod’Anconia,andhisactionbelongedtoanartwhichReardenhadnotbelievedanymantobetrainedtoperformanylonger.

           Yearsbefore,ReardenhadworkedinanobscuresteelplantinMinnesota,whereithadbeenhisjob,afterablastfurnacewastapped,toclosetheholebyhand—bythrowingbulletsoffireclaytodamtheflowofthemetal.