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- Стр. 928/1581
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His
smile
had
to
be
deserved
,
it
was
intended
for
an
adversary
who
traded
her
strength
against
his
,
not
for
a
pain
-
beaten
wretch
who
would
seek
relief
in
that
smile
and
thus
destroy
its
meaning
.
He
could
help
her
to
live
;
he
could
not
help
her
to
decide
for
what
purpose
she
wished
to
go
on
living
.
She
had
felt
a
faint
touch
of
anxiety
since
the
morning
when
she
marked
"
May
15
"
on
her
calendar
.
She
had
forced
herself
to
listen
to
news
broadcasts
,
once
in
a
while
;
she
had
heard
no
mention
of
his
name
.
Her
fear
for
him
was
her
last
link
to
the
city
;
it
kept
drawing
her
eyes
to
the
horizon
at
the
south
and
down
to
the
road
at
the
foot
of
the
hill
.
She
found
herself
waiting
for
him
to
come
.
She
found
herself
listening
for
the
sound
of
a
motor
.
But
the
only
sound
to
give
her
a
futile
start
of
hope
at
times
,
was
the
sudden
crackle
of
some
large
bird
’
s
wings
hurtling
through
the
branches
into
the
sky
.
There
was
another
link
to
the
past
,
that
still
remained
as
an
unsolved
question
:
Quentin
Daniels
and
the
motor
that
he
was
trying
to
rebuild
.
By
June
1
,
she
would
owe
him
his
monthly
check
.
Should
she
tell
him
that
she
had
quit
,
that
she
would
never
need
that
motor
and
neither
would
the
world
?
Should
she
tell
him
to
stop
and
to
let
the
remnant
of
the
motor
vanish
in
rust
on
some
such
junk
pile
as
the
one
where
she
had
found
it
?
She
could
not
force
herself
to
do
it
.
It
seemed
harder
than
leaving
the
railroad
.
That
motor
,
she
thought
,
was
not
a
link
to
the
past
:
it
was
her
last
link
to
the
future
.
To
kill
it
seemed
like
an
act
,
not
of
murder
,
but
of
suicide
:
her
order
to
stop
it
would
be
her
signature
under
the
certainty
that
there
was
no
terminal
for
her
to
seek
ahead
.
But
it
is
not
true
—
she
thought
,
as
she
stood
at
the
door
of
her
cabin
,
on
this
morning
of
May
28
—
it
is
not
true
that
there
is
no
place
in
the
future
for
a
superlative
achievement
of
man
’
s
mind
;
it
can
never
be
true
.
No
matter
what
her
problem
,
this
would
always
remain
to
her
—
this
immovable
conviction
that
evil
was
unnatural
and
temporary
.
She
felt
it
more
clearly
than
ever
this
morning
:
the
certainty
that
the
ugliness
of
the
men
in
the
city
and
the
ugliness
of
her
suffering
were
transient
accidents
—
while
the
smiling
sense
of
hope
within
her
at
the
sight
of
a
sun
-
flooded
forest
,
the
sense
of
an
unlimited
promise
,
was
the
permanent
and
the
real
.
She
stood
at
the
door
,
smoking
a
cigarette
.
In
the
room
behind
her
,
the
sounds
of
a
symphony
of
her
grandfather
’
s
time
were
coming
from
the
radio
.
She
barely
listened
,
she
was
conscious
only
of
the
flow
of
chords
that
seemed
to
play
an
underscoring
harmony
for
the
flow
of
the
smoke
curving
slowly
from
her
cigarette
,
for
the
curving
motion
of
her
arm
moving
the
cigarette
to
her
lips
once
in
a
while
.
She
closed
her
eyes
and
stood
still
,
feeling
the
rays
of
the
sun
on
her
body
.
This
was
the
achievement
,
she
thought
—
to
enjoy
this
moment
,
to
let
no
memory
of
pain
blunt
her
capacity
to
feel
as
she
felt
right
now
;
so
long
as
she
could
preserve
this
feeling
,
she
would
have
the
fuel
to
go
on
.
She
was
barely
aware
of
a
faint
noise
that
came
through
the
music
,
like
the
scratching
of
an
old
record
.
The
first
thing
to
reach
her
consciousness
was
the
sudden
jerk
of
her
own
hand
flinging
the
cigarette
aside
.
It
came
in
the
same
instant
as
the
realization
that
the
noise
was
growing
loader
and
that
it
was
the
sound
of
a
motor
.
Then
she
knew
that
she
had
not
admitted
to
herself
how
much
she
had
wanted
to
hear
that
sound
,
how
desperately
she
had
waited
for
Hank
Rearden
.
She
heard
her
own
chuckle
—
it
was
humbly
,
cautiously
low
,
as
if
not
to
disturb
the
drone
of
revolving
metal
which
was
now
the
unmistakable
sound
of
a
car
rising
up
the
mountain
road
.
She
could
not
see
the
road
—
the
small
stretch
under
the
arch
of
branches
at
the
foot
of
the
hill
was
her
only
view
of
it
—
but
she
watched
the
car
’
s
ascent
by
the
growing
,
imperious
strain
of
the
motor
against
the
grades
and
the
screech
of
the
tires
on
curves
.
