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- Айн Рэнд
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- Стр. 533/1581
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And
because
,
were
she
lying
crushed
under
the
ruins
of
a
building
,
were
she
torn
by
the
bomb
of
an
air
raid
,
so
long
as
she
was
still
in
existence
she
would
know
that
action
is
man
’
s
foremost
obligation
,
regardless
of
anything
he
feels
—
she
was
able
to
run
down
the
platform
and
to
see
the
face
of
the
stationmaster
when
she
found
him
—
she
was
able
to
order
:
"
Hold
Number
57
for
me
!
"
—
then
to
run
to
the
privacy
of
a
telephone
booth
in
the
darkness
beyond
the
end
of
the
platform
,
and
to
give
the
long
-
distance
operator
the
number
of
Ellis
Wyatt
’
s
house
.
She
stood
,
propped
up
by
the
walls
of
the
booth
,
her
eyes
closed
,
and
listened
to
the
dead
whirl
of
metal
which
was
the
sound
of
a
bell
ringing
somewhere
.
It
brought
no
answer
.
The
bell
kept
coming
in
sudden
spasms
,
like
a
drill
going
through
her
ear
,
through
her
body
.
She
clutched
the
receiver
as
if
,
unheeded
,
it
were
still
a
form
of
contact
.
She
wished
the
bell
were
louder
.
She
forgot
that
the
sound
she
heard
was
not
the
one
ringing
in
his
house
.
She
did
not
know
that
she
was
screaming
,
"
Ellis
,
don
’
t
!
Don
’
t
!
Don
’
t
!
"
—
until
she
heard
the
cold
,
reproving
voice
of
the
operator
say
,
"
Your
party
does
not
answer
.
"
She
sat
at
the
window
of
a
coach
of
Train
Number
57
,
and
listened
to
the
clicking
of
the
wheels
on
the
rails
of
Rearden
Metal
,
She
sat
,
unresisting
,
swaying
with
the
motion
of
the
train
.
The
black
luster
of
the
window
hid
the
countryside
she
did
not
want
to
see
.
It
was
her
second
run
on
the
John
Galt
Line
,
and
she
tried
not
to
think
of
the
first
.
The
bondholders
,
she
thought
,
the
bondholders
of
the
John
Galt
Line
—
it
was
to
her
honor
that
they
had
entrusted
their
money
,
the
saving
and
achievement
of
years
,
it
was
on
her
ability
that
they
had
staked
it
,
it
was
on
her
work
that
they
had
relied
and
on
their
own
—
and
she
had
been
made
to
betray
them
into
a
looters
’
trap
:
there
would
be
no
trains
and
no
life
-
blood
of
freight
,
the
John
Galt
Line
had
been
only
a
drainpipe
that
had
permitted
Jim
Taggart
to
make
a
deal
and
to
drain
their
wealth
,
unearned
,
into
his
pocket
,
in
exchange
for
letting
others
drain
his
railroad
—
the
bonds
of
the
John
Galt
Line
,
which
,
this
morning
,
had
been
the
proud
guardians
of
their
owners
’
security
and
future
,
had
become
in
the
space
of
an
hour
,
scraps
of
paper
that
no
one
would
buy
,
with
no
value
,
no
future
,
no
power
,
save
the
power
to
close
the
doors
and
stop
the
wheels
of
the
last
hope
of
the
country
—
and
Taggart
Transcontinental
was
not
a
living
plant
,
fed
by
blood
it
had
worked
to
produce
,
but
a
cannibal
of
the
moment
,
devouring
the
unborn
children
of
greatness
.
The
tax
on
Colorado
,
she
thought
,
the
tax
collected
from
Ellis
Wyatt
to
pay
for
the
livelihood
of
those
whose
job
was
to
tie
him
and
make
him
unable
to
live
,
those
who
would
stand
on
guard
to
see
that
he
got
no
trains
,
no
tank
cars
,
no
pipeline
of
Rearden
Metal
—
Ellis
Wyatt
,
stripped
of
the
right
of
self
-
defense
,
left
without
voice
,
without
weapons
,
and
worse
:
made
to
be
the
tool
of
his
own
destruction
,
the
supporter
of
his
own
destroyers
,
the
provider
of
their
food
and
of
their
weapons
—
Ellis
Wyatt
being
choked
,
with
his
own
bright
energy
turned
against
him
as
the
noose
—
Ellis
Wyatt
,
who
had
wanted
to
tap
an
unlimited
source
of
shale
oil
and
who
spoke
of
a
Second
Renaissance
.
.
.
She
sat
bent
over
,
her
head
on
her
arms
,
slumped
at
the
ledge
of
the
window
—
while
the
great
curves
of
the
green
-
blue
rail
,
the
mountains
,
the
valleys
,
the
new
towns
of
Colorado
went
by
in
the
darkness
,
unseen
.
The
sudden
jolt
of
brakes
on
wheels
threw
her
upright
.
It
was
an
unscheduled
stop
,
and
the
platform
of
the
small
station
was
crowded
with
people
,
all
looking
off
in
the
same
direction
.
The
passengers
around
her
were
pressing
to
the
windows
,
staring
.
She
leaped
to
her
feet
,
she
ran
down
the
aisle
,
down
the
steps
,
into
the
cold
wind
sweeping
the
platform
.
