In the enclosed gym equipment room, the muscular man sweated like rain. In a plank position, bead-sized drops of sweat fell straight from his forehead to the floor, then rolled into the cracks.
His engorged muscles had swollen completely, and even his veins stood out clearly. The moment the timer rang, he nearly collapsed onto the floor. Rolling onto his back, he panted harshly. He picked up the towel around his neck and wiped the sweat from his face, but it still seeped into his eyes.
Irritably, he rubbed his eyes, but the more he rubbed, the more they hurt. He could only stagger to his feet and head for the restroom to wash his face. He tried several times but could not turn on the faucet; his arms were shaking too badly. He had to lean his head over and use his cheek to lift the faucet handle.
Even when washing his face, he could only lean in and rinse it briefly, then rub it against the towel. He returned to the training area, picked up the timer first, and had some trouble winding it. After finally setting it, he got into position, only for his arm to slip. With a bang, he hit the floor facedown.
"Damn it!" he cursed, using the last of his strength to roll over and stare at the ceiling as he gasped for breath.
Retraining had gone far too poorly. Hal struggled to lift his eyelids. He did not know why, but after only a few months, his physical fitness had fallen to such a degree, and his balance was an utter disaster. Most absurdly, he had gotten so dizzy on the "mayonnaise machine"—the pilots' nickname for that training device that spun crazily in every direction once you sat in it—that he felt