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- Айн Рэнд
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- Атлант расправил плечи
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- Стр. 1580/1581
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When
he
found
that
he
had
collapsed
on
the
floor
of
the
cab
and
knew
that
there
was
nothing
he
could
do
here
any
longer
,
he
rose
and
he
climbed
down
the
ladder
,
thinking
dimly
of
the
engine
’
s
wheels
,
even
though
he
knew
that
the
engineer
had
checked
them
.
He
felt
the
crunch
of
the
desert
dust
under
his
feet
when
he
let
himself
drop
to
the
ground
.
He
stood
still
and
,
in
the
enormous
silence
,
he
heard
the
rustle
of
tumbleweeds
stirring
in
the
darkness
,
like
the
chuckle
of
an
invisible
army
made
free
to
move
when
the
Comet
was
not
.
He
heard
a
sharper
rustle
close
by
—
and
he
saw
the
small
gray
shape
of
a
rabbit
rise
on
its
haunches
to
sniff
at
the
steps
of
a
car
of
the
Taggart
Comet
.
With
a
jolt
of
murderous
fury
,
he
lunged
in
the
direction
of
the
rabbit
,
as
if
he
could
defeat
the
advance
of
the
enemy
in
the
person
of
that
tiny
gray
form
.
The
rabbit
darted
off
into
the
darkness
—
but
he
knew
that
the
advance
was
not
to
be
defeated
.
He
stepped
to
the
front
of
the
engine
and
looked
up
at
the
letters
TT
.
Then
he
collapsed
across
the
rail
and
lay
sobbing
at
the
foot
of
the
engine
,
with
the
beam
of
a
motionless
headlight
above
him
going
off
into
a
limitless
night
.
The
music
of
Richard
Halley
’
s
Fifth
Concerto
streamed
from
his
keyboard
,
past
the
glass
of
the
window
,
and
spread
through
the
air
,
over
the
lights
of
the
valley
.
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
.
The
lights
of
the
valley
fell
in
glowing
patches
on
the
snow
still
covering
the
ground
.
There
were
shelves
of
snow
on
the
granite
ledges
and
on
the
heavy
limbs
of
the
pines
.
But
the
naked
branches
of
the
birch
trees
had
a
faintly
upward
thrust
,
as
if
in
confident
promise
of
the
coming
leaves
of
spring
.
The
rectangle
of
light
on
the
side
of
a
mountain
was
the
window
of
Mulligan
’
s
study
.
Midas
Mulligan
sat
at
his
desk
,
with
a
map
and
a
column
of
figures
before
him
.
He
was
listing
the
assets
of
his
bank
and
working
on
a
plan
of
projected
investments
.
He
was
noting
down
the
locations
he
was
choosing
:
"
New
York
—
Cleveland
—
Chicago
.
.
.
New
York
—
Philadelphia
.
.
.
New
York
.
.
.
New
York
.
.
.
New
York
.
.
.
"
The
rectangle
of
light
at
the
bottom
of
the
valley
was
the
window
of
Danneskjold
’
s
home
.
Kay
Ludlow
sat
before
a
mirror
,
thoughtfully
studying
the
shades
of
film
make
-
up
,
spread
open
in
a
battered
case
.
Ragnar
Danneskjold
lay
stretched
on
a
couch
,
reading
a
volume
of
the
works
of
Aristotle
:
"
.
.
.
for
these
truths
hold
good
for
everything
that
is
,
and
not
for
some
special
genus
apart
from
others
.
And
all
men
use
them
,
because
they
are
true
of
being
qua
being
.
.
.
For
a
principle
which
every
one
must
have
who
understands
anything
that
is
,
is
not
a
hypothesis
.
.
.
Evidently
then
such
a
principle
is
the
most
certain
of
all
;
which
principle
this
is
,
let
us
proceed
to
say
.
It
is
,
that
the
same
attribute
cannot
at
the
same
time
belong
and
not
belong
to
the
same
subject
in
the
same
respect
.
.
.
"
