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- Айн Рэнд
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- Стр. 708/1581
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"
You
’
ll
know
it
before
I
’
m
through
.
But
first
,
I
want
you
to
answer
a
question
:
if
you
understand
the
nature
of
your
burden
,
how
can
you
.
.
.
"
The
scream
of
an
alarm
siren
shattered
the
space
beyond
the
window
and
shot
like
a
rocket
in
a
long
,
thin
line
to
the
sky
.
It
held
for
an
instant
,
then
fell
,
then
went
on
in
rising
,
falling
spirals
of
sound
,
as
if
fighting
for
breath
against
terror
to
scream
louder
.
It
was
the
shriek
of
agony
,
the
call
for
help
,
the
voice
of
the
mills
as
of
a
wounded
body
crying
to
hold
its
soul
.
Rearden
thought
that
he
leaped
for
the
door
the
instant
the
scream
hit
his
consciousness
,
but
he
saw
that
he
was
an
instant
late
,
because
Francisco
had
preceded
him
.
Flung
by
the
blast
of
the
same
response
as
his
own
,
Francisco
was
flying
down
the
hall
,
pressing
the
button
of
the
elevator
and
,
not
waiting
,
racing
on
down
the
stairs
.
Rearden
followed
him
and
,
watching
the
dial
of
the
elevator
on
the
stair
landings
,
they
met
it
halfway
down
the
height
of
the
building
.
Before
the
steel
cage
had
ceased
trembling
at
the
sill
of
the
ground
floor
,
Francisco
was
out
,
racing
to
meet
the
sound
of
the
call
for
help
.
Rearden
had
thought
himself
a
good
runner
,
but
he
could
not
keep
up
with
the
swift
figure
streaking
off
through
stretches
of
red
glare
and
darkness
,
the
figure
of
a
useless
playboy
he
had
hated
himself
for
admiring
.
The
stream
,
gushing
from
a
hole
low
on
the
side
of
a
blast
furnace
,
did
not
have
the
red
glow
of
fire
,
but
the
white
radiance
of
sunlight
.
It
poured
along
the
ground
,
branching
off
at
random
in
sudden
streaks
;
it
cut
through
a
dank
fog
of
steam
with
a
bright
suggestion
of
morning
.
It
was
liquid
iron
,
and
what
the
scream
of
the
alarm
proclaimed
was
a
break
-
out
.
The
charge
of
the
furnace
had
been
hung
up
and
,
breaking
,
had
blown
the
tap
-
hole
open
.
The
furnace
foreman
lay
knocked
unconscious
,
the
white
flow
spurted
,
slowly
tearing
the
hole
wider
,
and
men
were
struggling
with
sand
,
hose
and
fire
clay
to
stop
the
glowing
streaks
that
spread
in
a
heavy
,
gliding
motion
,
eating
everything
on
their
way
into
jets
of
acrid
smoke
.
In
the
few
moments
which
Rearden
needed
to
grasp
the
sight
and
nature
of
the
disaster
,
he
saw
a
man
’
s
figure
rising
suddenly
at
the
foot
of
the
furnace
,
a
figure
outlined
by
the
red
glare
almost
as
if
it
stood
in
the
path
of
the
torrent
,
he
saw
the
swing
of
a
white
shirt
sleeved
arm
that
rose
and
flung
a
black
object
into
the
source
of
the
spurting
metal
.
It
was
Francisco
d
’
Anconia
,
and
his
action
belonged
to
an
art
which
Rearden
had
not
believed
any
man
to
be
trained
to
perform
any
longer
.
Years
before
,
Rearden
had
worked
in
an
obscure
steel
plant
in
Minnesota
,
where
it
had
been
his
job
,
after
a
blast
furnace
was
tapped
,
to
close
the
hole
by
hand
—
by
throwing
bullets
of
fire
clay
to
dam
the
flow
of
the
metal
.
