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But
she
saw
lights
in
the
windows
of
the
cheap
,
garish
structures
that
had
acquired
,
within
a
few
years
,
the
slovenly
dilapidation
of
slum
hovels
;
the
homes
of
people
who
had
not
moved
,
the
people
who
never
looked
beyond
the
span
of
one
week
.
She
saw
a
large
new
television
set
in
the
lighted
room
of
a
house
with
a
sagging
roof
and
cracking
walls
.
She
wondered
how
long
they
expected
the
electric
power
companies
of
Colorado
to
remain
in
existence
.
Then
she
shook
her
head
:
those
people
had
never
known
that
power
companies
existed
.
The
main
street
of
Marshville
was
lined
by
the
black
windows
of
shops
out
of
business
.
All
the
luxury
stores
are
gone
—
she
thought
,
looking
at
their
signs
;
and
then
she
shuddered
,
realizing
what
things
she
now
called
luxury
,
realizing
to
what
extent
and
in
what
manner
those
things
,
once
available
to
the
poorest
,
had
been
luxuries
:
Dry
Cleaning
—
Electrical
Appliances
—
Gas
Station
—
Drug
Store
—
Five
and
Ten
.
The
only
ones
left
open
were
grocery
stores
and
saloons
.
The
platform
of
the
railroad
station
was
crowded
.
The
glaring
arc
lights
seemed
to
pick
it
out
of
the
mountains
,
to
isolate
and
focus
it
,
like
a
small
stage
on
which
every
movement
was
naked
to
the
sight
of
the
unseen
tiers
rising
in
the
vast
,
encircling
night
.
People
were
carting
luggage
,
bundling
their
children
,
haggling
at
ticket
windows
,
the
stifled
panic
of
their
manner
suggesting
that
what
they
really
wanted
to
do
was
to
fall
down
on
the
ground
and
scream
with
terror
.
Their
terror
had
the
evasive
quality
of
guilt
:
it
was
not
the
fear
that
comes
from
understanding
,
but
from
the
refusal
to
understand
.
The
last
train
stood
at
the
platform
,
its
windows
a
long
,
lone
streak
of
light
.
The
steam
of
the
locomotive
,
gasping
tensely
through
the
wheels
,
did
not
have
its
usual
joyous
sound
of
energy
released
for
a
sprint
;
it
had
the
sound
of
a
panting
breath
that
one
dreads
to
hear
and
dreads
more
to
stop
hearing
.
Far
at
the
end
of
the
lighted
windows
,
she
saw
the
small
red
dot
of
a
lantern
attached
to
her
private
car
.
Beyond
the
lantern
,
there
was
nothing
but
a
black
void
.
The
train
was
loaded
to
capacity
,
and
the
shrill
notes
of
hysteria
in
the
confusion
of
voices
were
the
pleas
for
space
in
vestibules
and
aisles
.
Some
people
were
not
leaving
,
but
stood
in
vapid
curiosity
,
watching
the
show
;
they
had
come
,
as
if
knowing
that
this
was
the
last
event
they
would
ever
witness
in
their
community
and
,
perhaps
,
in
their
lives
.
She
walked
hastily
through
the
crowd
,
trying
not
to
look
at
anyone
.
Some
knew
who
she
was
,
most
of
them
did
not
.
She
saw
an
old
woman
with
a
ragged
shawl
on
her
shoulders
and
the
graph
of
a
lifetime
’
s
struggle
on
the
cracked
skin
of
her
face
;
the
woman
’
s
glance
was
a
hopeless
appeal
for
help
.
An
unshaved
young
man
with
gold
-
rimmed
glasses
stood
on
a
crate
under
an
arc
light
,
yelling
to
the
faces
shifting
past
him
,
"
What
do
they
mean
,
no
business
!
Look
at
that
train
!
It
’
s
full
of
passengers
!
There
’
s
plenty
of
business
!
It
’
s
just
that
there
’
s
no
profits
for
them
—
that
’
s
why
they
’
re
letting
you
perish
,
those
greedy
parasites
!
"
A
disheveled
woman
rushed
up
to
Dagny
,
waving
two
tickets
and
screaming
something
about
the
wrong
date
.
Dagny
found
herself
pushing
people
out
of
the
way
,
fighting
to
reach
the
end
of
the
train
—
but
an
emaciated
man
,
with
the
staring
eyes
of
years
of
malicious
futility
,
rushed
at
her
,
shouting
,
"
It
’
s
all
right
for
you
,
you
’
ve
got
a
good
overcoat
and
a
private
car
,
but
you
won
’
t
give
us
any
trains
,
you
and
all
the
selfish
—
"
He
stopped
abruptly
,
looking
at
someone
behind
her
.
She
felt
a
hand
grasping
her
elbow
:
it
was
Hank
Rearden
.
He
held
her
arm
and
led
her
toward
her
car
;
seeing
the
look
on
his
face
,
she
understood
why
people
got
out
of
their
way
.
At
the
end
of
the
platform
,
a
pallid
,
plumpish
man
stood
saying
to
a
crying
woman
,
"
That
’
s
how
it
’
s
always
been
in
this
world
.
There
will
be
no
chance
for
the
poor
,
until
the
rich
are
destroyed
.
"
High
above
the
town
,
hanging
in
black
space
like
an
uncooled
planet
,
the
flame
of
Wyatt
’
s
Torch
was
twisting
in
the
wind
.
