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Show 21 legs flatten against the wood. The heat is overwhelming. It is as if his limbs no longer work, as if his circulation ceases, as if all his reflex muscular systems no longer respond, and he cannot swallow, or breathe, or move the lids of his eyes. It is as if the remote appendages of his body, his toes, his fingers, curl in the heat; as if the sinews soften and melt, as if the soft inner tissues slowly liquefy. It is absolute inertia, unmovingness. --He does not know whether he has groaned, or choked, or screamed, but they are over him now, quick, efficient: one of the glistening men raises Robeck's head, feels his breath, slides his arms beneath Robeck's back as another takes his feet; still another holds open the door into the cool outside air, and they carry him quickly efficiently glisteningly out into the room. They place him lying down on a bench; they wring towels out in cold water and place them on his forehead. But Robeck sits up, pulls a dry towel around his groin. One of the men brings another towel soaked in cold water; but Robeck gets to his feet. He can walk now; he holds the towel around him, and heads towards his locker. Two of the youths amble casually beside him, as if they were going that way; they will allow him to shower and dress himself, he knows, but they will keep him under their eye. "Thanks," he admits. "Nothing to it," one of them answers. "Heat makes terrible dreams. It's not a place for falling asleep." |