By Ayn Rand

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No one knew why it had stopped. There was no station, no sign of life in the barren waste of miles. An empty stretch of sky hung over an empty stretch of land; the sky had a few black spots of clouds; the land—a few black spots of bushes. A faint, red, quivering line divided the two; it looked like a storm or a distant fire. Whispers crawled down the long line of cars: “The boiler exploded. . ” “The bridge is blown up half a mile ahead. . ” “They’ve found counter-revolutionaries on the train and they’re going to shoot them right here, in the bushes.

I didn’t! Brothers, where are you taking me? ” From below, among the boots and swishing, mud-caked skirts, someone howled monotonously, not quite a human sound nor a barking: a woman was crawling on her knees, trying to gather a spilled sack of millet, sobbing, picking up the grain mixed with sunflower-seed shells and cigarette butts. Kira looked at the tall windows. She heard, from the outside, the old familiar sound of the piercing tramway bell. She smiled. At a door marked in red letters “Commandant,” a young soldier stood on guard.

Galina Petrovna kissed the girls; then she raised herself on tiptoe to plant a kiss on the cheek of her brother-in-law, Vasili Ivanovitch. She tried not to look at him. His thick hair was white; his tall, powerful body stooped. Had she seen the Admiralty tower stooping, Galina Petrovna would have felt less alarmed. Vasili Ivanovitch spoke seldom. ” The question was warmer than a kiss. His sunken eyes were like a fireplace where the last blazing coals fought against slow, inevitable ashes. He said: “Sorry Victor isn’t home.

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