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"
What
’
s
the
matter
,
Pop
?
"
"
I
’
m
not
going
to
requisition
a
new
typewriter
.
The
new
ones
are
made
of
tin
.
When
the
old
ones
go
,
that
will
be
the
end
of
type
-
writing
.
There
was
an
accident
in
the
subway
this
morning
,
their
brakes
wouldn
’
t
work
.
You
ought
to
go
home
,
Eddie
,
turn
on
the
radio
and
listen
to
a
good
dance
band
.
Forget
it
,
boy
.
Trouble
with
you
is
you
never
had
a
hobby
.
Somebody
stole
the
electric
light
bulbs
again
,
from
off
the
staircase
,
down
where
I
live
.
I
’
ve
got
a
pain
in
my
chest
.
Couldn
’
t
get
any
cough
drops
this
morning
,
the
drugstore
on
our
corner
went
bankrupt
last
week
.
The
Texas
-
Western
Railroad
went
bankrupt
last
month
.
They
closed
the
Queensborough
Bridge
yesterday
for
temporary
repairs
.
Oh
well
,
what
’
s
the
use
?
Who
is
John
Galt
?
"
*
*
*
She
sat
at
the
window
of
the
train
,
her
head
thrown
back
,
one
leg
stretched
across
to
the
empty
seat
before
her
.
The
window
frame
trembled
with
the
speed
of
the
motion
,
the
pane
hung
over
empty
darkness
,
and
dots
of
light
slashed
across
the
glass
as
luminous
streaks
,
once
in
a
while
.
Her
leg
,
sculptured
by
the
tight
sheen
of
the
stocking
,
its
long
line
running
straight
,
over
an
arched
instep
,
to
the
tip
of
a
foot
in
a
high
-
heeled
pump
,
had
a
feminine
elegance
that
seemed
out
of
place
in
the
dusty
train
car
and
oddly
incongruous
with
the
rest
of
her
.
She
wore
a
battered
camel
’
s
hair
coat
that
had
been
expensive
,
wrapped
shapelessly
about
her
slender
,
nervous
body
.
The
coat
collar
was
raised
to
the
slanting
brim
of
her
hat
.
A
sweep
of
brown
hair
fell
back
,
almost
touching
the
line
of
her
shoulders
.
Her
face
was
made
of
angular
planes
,
the
shape
of
her
mouth
clear
-
cut
,
a
sensual
mouth
held
closed
with
inflexible
precision
.
She
kept
her
hands
in
the
coat
pockets
,
her
posture
taut
,
as
if
she
resented
immobility
,
and
unfeminine
,
as
if
she
were
unconscious
of
her
own
body
and
that
it
was
a
woman
’
s
body
.
She
sat
listening
to
the
music
.
It
was
a
symphony
of
triumph
.
The
notes
flowed
up
,
they
spoke
of
rising
and
they
were
the
rising
itself
,
they
were
the
essence
and
the
form
of
upward
motion
,
they
seemed
to
embody
every
human
act
and
thought
that
had
ascent
as
its
motive
.
It
was
a
sunburst
of
sound
,
breaking
out
of
hiding
and
spreading
open
.
It
had
the
freedom
of
release
and
the
tension
of
purpose
.
It
swept
space
clean
,
and
left
nothing
but
the
joy
of
an
unobstructed
effort
.
Only
a
faint
echo
within
the
sounds
spoke
of
that
from
which
the
music
had
escaped
,
but
spoke
in
laughing
astonishment
at
the
discovery
that
there
was
no
ugliness
or
pain
,
and
there
never
had
had
to
be
.
It
was
the
song
of
an
immense
deliverance
.
She
thought
:
For
just
a
few
moments
—
while
this
lasts
—
it
is
all
right
to
surrender
completely
—
to
forget
everything
and
just
permit
yourself
to
feel
.
She
thought
:
Let
go
—
drop
the
controls
—
this
is
it
.
Somewhere
on
the
edge
of
her
mind
,
under
the
music
,
she
heard
the
sound
of
train
wheels
.
They
knocked
in
an
even
rhythm
,
every
fourth
knock
accented
,
as
if
stressing
a
conscious
purpose
.
She
could
relax
,
because
she
heard
the
wheels
.
She
listened
to
the
symphony
,
thinking
:
This
is
why
the
wheels
have
to
be
kept
going
,
and
this
is
where
they
’
re
going
.
