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- Айн Рэнд
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- Атлант расправил плечи
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- Стр. 1380/1581
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He
saw
his
mills
rising
in
the
darkness
,
as
a
black
silhouette
against
a
breathing
glow
.
The
glow
was
the
color
of
burning
gold
,
and
"
Rearden
Steel
"
stood
written
across
the
sky
in
the
cool
,
white
fire
of
crystal
.
He
looked
at
the
long
silhouette
,
the
curves
of
blast
furnaces
standing
like
triumphal
arches
,
the
smokestacks
rising
like
a
solemn
colonnade
along
an
avenue
of
honor
in
an
imperial
city
,
the
bridges
hanging
like
garlands
,
the
cranes
saluting
like
lances
,
the
smoke
waving
slowly
like
flags
.
The
sight
broke
the
stillness
within
him
and
he
smiled
in
greeting
.
It
was
a
smile
of
happiness
,
of
love
,
of
dedication
.
He
had
never
loved
his
mills
as
he
did
in
that
moment
,
for
—
seeing
them
by
an
act
of
his
own
vision
,
cleared
of
all
but
his
own
code
of
values
,
in
a
luminous
reality
that
held
no
contradictions
—
he
was
seeing
the
reason
of
his
love
:
the
mills
were
an
achievement
of
his
mind
,
devoted
to
his
enjoyment
of
existence
,
erected
in
a
rational
world
to
deal
with
rational
men
.
If
those
men
had
vanished
,
if
that
world
was
gone
,
if
his
mills
had
ceased
to
serve
his
values
—
then
the
mills
were
only
a
pile
of
dead
scrap
,
to
be
left
to
crumble
,
the
sooner
the
better
—
to
be
left
,
not
as
an
act
of
treason
,
but
as
an
act
of
loyalty
to
their
actual
meaning
.
The
mills
were
still
a
mile
ahead
when
a
small
spurt
of
flame
caught
his
sudden
attention
.
Among
all
the
shades
of
fire
in
the
vast
spread
of
structures
,
he
could
tell
the
abnormal
and
the
out
-
of
-
place
:
this
one
was
too
raw
a
shade
of
yellow
and
it
was
darting
from
a
spot
where
no
fire
had
reason
to
be
,
from
a
structure
by
the
gate
of
the
main
entrance
.
In
the
next
instant
,
he
heard
the
dry
crack
of
a
gunshot
,
then
three
answering
cracks
in
swift
succession
,
like
an
angry
hand
slapping
a
sudden
assailant
.
Then
the
black
mass
barring
the
road
in
the
distance
took
shape
,
it
was
not
mere
darkness
and
it
did
not
recede
as
he
came
closer
—
it
was
a
mob
squirming
at
the
main
gate
,
trying
to
storm
the
mills
.
He
had
time
to
distinguish
waving
arms
,
some
with
clubs
,
some
with
crowbars
,
some
with
rifles
—
the
yellow
flames
of
burning
wood
gushing
from
the
window
of
the
gatekeeper
’
s
office
—
the
blue
cracks
of
gunfire
darting
out
of
the
mob
and
the
answers
spitting
from
the
roofs
of
the
structures
—
he
had
time
to
see
a
human
figure
twisting
backward
and
falling
from
the
top
of
a
car
—
then
he
sent
his
wheels
into
a
shrieking
curve
,
turning
into
the
darkness
of
a
side
road
.
He
was
going
at
the
rate
of
sixty
miles
an
hour
down
the
ruts
of
an
unpaved
soil
,
toward
the
eastern
gate
of
the
mills
—
and
the
gate
was
in
sight
when
the
impact
of
tires
on
a
gully
threw
the
car
off
the
road
,
to
the
edge
of
a
ravine
where
an
ancient
slag
heap
lay
at
the
bottom
.
With
the
weight
of
his
chest
and
elbow
on
the
wheel
,
pitted
against
two
tons
of
speeding
metal
,
the
curve
of
his
body
forced
the
curve
of
the
car
to
complete
its
screaming
half
-
circle
,
sweeping
it
back
onto
the
road
and
into
the
control
of
his
hands
.
It
had
taken
one
instant
,
but
in
the
next
his
foot
went
down
on
the
brake
,
tearing
the
engine
to
a
stop
:
for
in
the
moment
when
his
headlights
had
swept
the
ravine
,
he
had
glimpsed
an
oblong
shape
,
darker
than
the
gray
of
the
weeds
on
the
slope
,
and
it
had
seemed
to
him
that
a
brief
white
blur
had
been
a
human
hand
waving
for
help
.
Throwing
off
his
overcoat
,
he
went
hurrying
down
the
side
of
the
ravine
,
lumps
of
earth
giving
way
under
his
feet
,
he
went
catching
at
the
dried
coils
of
brush
,
half
-
running
,
half
-
sliding
toward
the
long
black
form
which
he
could
now
distinguish
to
be
a
human
body
.
A
scum
of
cotton
was
swimming
against
the
moon
,
he
could
see
the
white
of
a
hand
and
the
shape
of
an
arm
lying
stretched
in
the
weeds
,
but
the
body
lay
still
,
with
no
sign
of
motion
.
"
Mr
.
Rearden
.
.
.
"
