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- Стр. 389/1581
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On
the
crest
of
a
distant
hill
,
she
saw
a
crowd
of
people
,
their
arms
swinging
against
the
sky
.
The
gray
houses
of
a
village
were
scattered
through
a
valley
below
,
as
if
dropped
there
once
and
forgotten
;
the
roof
lines
slanted
,
sagging
,
and
the
years
had
washed
away
the
color
of
the
walls
.
Perhaps
generations
had
lived
there
,
with
nothing
to
mark
the
passage
of
their
days
but
the
movement
of
the
sun
from
east
to
west
.
Now
,
these
men
had
climbed
the
hill
to
see
a
silver
-
headed
comet
cut
through
their
plains
like
the
sound
of
a
bugle
through
a
long
weight
of
silence
.
As
houses
began
to
come
more
frequently
,
closer
to
the
track
,
she
saw
people
at
the
windows
,
on
the
porches
,
on
distant
roofs
.
She
saw
crowds
blocking
the
roads
at
grade
crossings
.
The
roads
went
sweeping
past
like
the
spokes
of
a
fan
,
and
she
could
not
distinguish
human
figures
,
only
their
arms
greeting
the
train
like
branches
waving
in
the
wind
of
its
speed
.
They
stood
under
the
swinging
red
lights
of
warning
signals
,
under
the
signs
saying
;
"
Stop
.
Look
.
Listen
.
"
The
station
past
which
they
flew
,
as
they
went
through
a
town
at
a
hundred
miles
an
hour
,
was
a
swaying
sculpture
of
people
from
platform
to
roof
.
She
caught
the
flicker
of
waving
arms
,
of
hats
tossed
in
the
air
,
of
something
flung
against
the
side
of
the
engine
,
which
was
a
bunch
of
flowers
.
As
the
miles
clicked
past
them
,
the
towns
went
by
,
with
the
stations
at
which
they
did
not
stop
,
with
the
crowds
of
people
who
had
come
only
to
see
,
to
cheer
and
to
hope
.
She
saw
garlands
of
flowers
under
the
sooted
eaves
of
old
station
buildings
,
and
bunting
of
red
-
white
-
and
-
blue
on
the
time
-
eaten
walls
.
It
was
like
the
pictures
she
had
seen
—
and
envied
—
in
schoolbook
histories
of
railroads
,
from
the
era
when
people
gathered
to
greet
the
first
run
of
a
train
.
It
was
like
the
age
when
Nat
Taggart
moved
across
the
country
,
and
the
stops
along
his
way
were
marked
by
men
eager
for
the
sight
of
achievement
.
That
age
,
she
had
thought
,
was
gone
;
generations
had
passed
,
with
no
event
to
greet
anywhere
,
with
nothing
to
see
but
the
cracks
lengthening
year
by
year
on
the
walls
built
by
Nat
Taggart
.
Yet
men
came
again
,
as
they
had
come
in
his
time
,
drawn
by
the
same
response
.
She
glanced
at
Rearden
.
He
stood
against
the
wall
,
unaware
of
the
crowds
,
indifferent
to
admiration
.
He
was
watching
the
performance
of
track
and
train
with
an
expert
’
s
intensity
of
professional
interest
;
his
bearing
suggested
that
he
would
kick
aside
,
as
irrelevant
,
any
thought
such
as
"
They
like
it
,
"
when
the
thought
ringing
in
his
mind
was
"
It
works
!
"
His
tall
figure
in
the
single
gray
of
slacks
and
shirt
looked
as
if
his
body
were
stripped
for
action
.
The
slacks
stressed
the
long
lines
of
his
legs
,
the
light
,
firm
posture
of
standing
without
effort
or
being
ready
to
swing
forward
at
an
instant
’
s
notice
;
the
short
sleeves
stressed
the
gaunt
strength
of
his
arms
;
the
open
shirt
bared
the
tight
skin
of
his
chest
.
She
turned
away
,
realizing
suddenly
that
she
had
been
glancing
back
at
him
too
often
.
But
this
day
had
no
ties
to
past
or
future
—
her
thoughts
were
cut
off
from
implications
—
she
saw
no
further
meaning
,
only
the
immediate
intensity
of
the
feeling
that
she
was
imprisoned
with
him
,
sealed
together
in
the
same
cube
of
air
,
the
closeness
of
his
presence
underscoring
her
awareness
of
this
day
,
as
his
rails
underscored
the
flight
of
the
train
.
She
turned
deliberately
and
glanced
back
.
He
was
looking
at
her
.
