Атлант расправил плечи
The Sanction of the Victim
Reardensatlookingathim,asifstudyinganobjectseenforthefirsttime.SomewheredeepinRearden’smind,asasteady,gentle,inexorablebeat,wasaman’svoice,saying:Bywhatright?—bywhatcode?—bywhatstandard?
"Philip,"hesaid,notraisinghisvoice,"sayanyofthatagainandyouwillfindyourselfoutinthestreet,rightnow,withthesuityou’vegotonyourback,withwhateverchangeyou’vegotinyourpocketandwithnothingelse."
Heheardnoanswer,nosound,nomovement.Henotedthatthestillnessofthethreebeforehimhadnoelementofastonishment.Thelookofshockontheirfaceswasnottheshockofpeopleatthesuddenexplosionofabomb,buttheshockofpeoplewhohadknownthattheywereplayingwithalightedfuse.Therewerenooutcries,noprotests,noquestions;theyknewthathemeantitandtheykneweverythingitmeant.Adim,sickeningfeelingtoldhimthattheyhadknownitlongbeforehedid.
"You...youwouldn’tthrowyourownbrotheroutonthestreet,wouldyou?"hismothersaidatlast;itwasnotademand,butaplea.
"Iwould."
"Buthe’syourbrother...Doesn’tthatmeananythingtoyou?"
"No."
"Maybehegoesabittoofarattimes,butit’sjustloosetalk,it’sjustthatmodernjabber,hedoesn’tknowwhathe’ssaying."
"Thenlethimlearn."
"Don’tbehardonhim...
