-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Айн Рэнд
-
- Атлант расправил плечи
-
- Стр. 530/1581
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
She
rose
,
paid
her
bill
,
and
said
,
"
Thank
you
,
Dr
.
Akston
.
I
will
not
molest
you
with
tricks
or
pleas
.
I
will
not
hire
detectives
.
But
I
think
I
should
tell
you
that
I
will
not
give
up
,
I
must
find
the
inventor
of
that
motor
.
I
will
find
him
.
"
"
Not
until
the
day
when
he
chooses
to
find
you
—
as
he
will
.
"
When
she
walked
to
her
car
,
he
switched
on
the
lights
in
the
diner
,
she
saw
the
mailbox
by
the
side
of
the
road
and
noted
the
incredible
fact
that
the
name
"
Hugh
Akston
"
stood
written
openly
across
it
.
She
had
driven
far
down
the
winding
road
,
and
the
lights
of
the
diner
were
long
since
out
of
sight
,
when
she
noticed
that
she
was
enjoying
the
taste
of
the
cigarette
he
had
given
her
:
it
was
different
from
any
she
had
ever
smoked
before
.
She
held
the
small
remnant
to
the
light
of
the
dashboard
,
looking
for
the
name
of
the
brand
.
There
was
no
name
,
only
a
trademark
.
Stamped
in
gold
on
the
thin
,
white
paper
there
stood
the
sign
of
the
dollar
.
She
examined
it
curiously
:
she
had
never
heard
of
that
brand
before
.
Then
she
remembered
the
old
man
at
the
cigar
stand
of
the
Taggart
Terminal
,
and
smiled
,
thinking
that
this
was
a
specimen
for
his
collection
.
She
stamped
out
the
fire
and
dropped
the
butt
into
her
handbag
.
Train
Number
57
was
lined
along
the
track
,
ready
to
leave
for
Wyatt
Junction
,
when
she
reached
Cheyenne
,
left
her
car
at
the
garage
where
she
had
rented
it
,
and
walked
out
on
the
platform
of
the
Taggart
station
.
She
had
half
an
hour
to
wait
for
the
eastbound
main
liner
to
New
York
.
She
walked
to
the
end
of
the
platform
and
leaned
wearily
against
a
lamppost
;
she
did
not
want
to
be
seen
and
recognized
by
the
station
employees
,
she
did
not
want
to
talk
to
anyone
,
she
needed
rest
.
A
few
people
stood
in
clusters
on
the
half
-
deserted
platform
;
animated
conversations
seemed
to
be
going
on
,
and
newspapers
were
more
prominently
in
evidence
than
usual
.
She
looked
at
the
lighted
windows
of
Train
Number
57
—
for
a
moment
’
s
relief
in
the
sight
of
a
victorious
achievement
.
Train
Number
57
was
about
to
start
down
the
track
of
the
John
Galt
Line
,
through
the
towns
,
through
the
curves
of
the
mountains
,
past
the
green
signals
where
people
had
stood
cheering
and
the
valleys
where
rockets
had
risen
to
the
summer
sky
.
Twisted
remnants
of
leaves
now
hung
on
the
branches
beyond
the
train
’
s
roof
line
,
and
the
passengers
wore
furs
and
mufflers
,
as
they
climbed
aboard
.
They
moved
with
the
casual
manner
of
a
daily
event
,
with
the
security
of
expecting
a
performance
long
since
taken
for
granted
.
.
.
We
’
ve
done
it
—
she
thought
—
this
much
,
at
least
,
is
done
.
It
was
the
chance
conversation
of
two
men
somewhere
behind
her
that
came
beating
suddenly
against
her
closed
attention
.
