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- Стр. 1399/1581
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She
had
made
no
attempt
to
see
him
.
Every
morning
,
for
a
month
,
on
entering
her
office
,
she
had
been
conscious
,
not
of
the
room
around
her
,
but
of
the
tunnels
below
,
under
the
floors
of
the
building
—
and
she
had
worked
,
feeling
as
if
some
marginal
part
of
her
brain
was
computing
figures
,
reading
reports
,
making
decisions
in
a
rush
of
lifeless
activity
,
while
her
living
mind
was
inactive
and
still
,
frozen
in
contemplation
,
forbidden
to
move
beyond
the
sentence
:
He
’
s
down
there
.
The
only
inquiry
she
had
permitted
herself
had
been
a
glance
at
the
payroll
list
of
the
Terminal
workers
.
She
had
seen
the
name
:
Galt
,
John
.
The
list
had
carried
it
,
openly
,
for
over
twelve
years
.
She
had
seen
an
address
next
to
the
name
—
and
,
for
a
month
,
had
struggled
to
forget
it
.
It
had
seemed
hard
to
live
through
that
month
—
yet
now
,
as
she
looked
at
the
letter
,
the
thought
that
Galt
had
gone
was
still
harder
to
bear
.
Even
the
struggle
of
resisting
his
proximity
had
been
a
link
to
him
,
a
price
to
pay
,
a
victory
achieved
in
his
name
.
Now
there
was
nothing
,
except
a
question
that
was
not
to
be
asked
.
His
presence
in
the
tunnels
had
been
her
motor
through
those
days
—
just
as
his
presence
in
the
city
had
been
her
motor
through
the
months
of
that
summer
—
just
as
his
presence
somewhere
in
the
world
had
been
her
motor
through
the
years
before
she
ever
heard
his
name
.
Now
she
felt
as
if
her
motor
,
too
,
had
stopped
.
She
went
on
,
with
the
bright
,
pure
glitter
of
a
five
-
dollar
gold
piece
,
which
she
kept
in
her
pocket
,
as
her
last
drop
of
fuel
.
She
went
on
,
protected
from
the
world
around
her
by
a
last
armor
:
indifference
.
The
newspapers
did
not
mention
the
outbreaks
of
violence
that
had
begun
to
burst
across
the
country
—
but
she
watched
them
through
the
reports
of
train
conductors
about
bullet
-
riddled
cars
,
dismantled
tracks
,
attacked
trains
,
besieged
stations
,
in
Nebraska
,
in
Oregon
,
in
Texas
,
in
Montana
—
the
futile
,
doomed
outbreaks
,
prompted
by
nothing
but
despair
,
ending
in
nothing
but
destruction
.
Some
were
the
explosions
of
local
gangs
;
some
spread
wider
.
There
were
districts
that
rose
in
blind
rebellion
,
arrested
the
local
officials
,
expelled
the
agents
of
Washington
,
killed
the
tax
collectors
—
then
,
announcing
their
secession
from
the
country
,
went
on
to
the
final
extreme
of
the
very
evil
that
had
destroyed
them
,
as
if
fighting
murder
with
suicide
:
went
on
to
seize
all
property
within
their
reach
,
to
declare
community
bondage
of
all
to
all
,
and
to
perish
within
a
week
,
their
meager
loot
consumed
,
in
the
bloody
hatred
of
all
for
all
,
in
the
chaos
of
no
rule
save
that
of
the
gun
,
to
perish
under
the
lethargic
thrust
of
a
few
worn
soldiers
sent
out
from
Washington
to
bring
order
to
the
ruins
.
The
newspapers
did
not
mention
it
.
The
editorials
went
on
speaking
of
self
-
denial
as
the
road
to
future
progress
,
of
self
-
sacrifice
as
the
moral
imperative
,
of
greed
as
the
enemy
,
of
love
as
the
solution
—
their
threadbare
phrases
as
sickeningly
sweet
as
the
odor
of
ether
in
a
hospital
.
Rumors
went
spreading
through
the
country
in
whispers
of
cynical
terror
—
yet
people
read
the
newspapers
and
acted
as
if
they
believed
what
they
read
,
each
competing
with
the
others
on
who
would
keep
most
blindly
silent
,
each
pretending
that
he
did
not
know
what
he
knew
,
each
striving
to
believe
that
the
unnamed
was
the
unreal
.
It
was
as
if
a
volcano
were
cracking
open
,
yet
the
people
at
the
foot
of
the
mountain
ignored
the
sudden
fissures
,
the
black
fumes
,
the
boiling
trickles
,
and
went
on
believing
that
their
only
danger
was
to
acknowledge
the
reality
of
these
signs
.
"
Listen
to
Mr
.
Thompson
’
s
report
on
the
world
crisis
,
November
22
!
"
