"John E. Stith - All for Naught" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stith John E)

fingers found the switch itself, and he finally managed to turn
it off.
Instant silence. Nick fell back to the bed and resumed
breathing. He rubbed his eyes and began to relax, feeling hardly
more energetic than when he had first woke. After a long minute,
he finally dragged himself into a sitting position, legs over the
side of the bed and sighed. He blinked hard several times. Even
the dim light seemed bright.
He said, to no one in particular, "Man, I hate Mondays."
Nick pulled the jumper cable off his ankle and let it drop
to the floor. He pulled the cable off his wrist. He stared at
the one from his wrist for a long second, then looked back at the
switch. He moved the jumper cable toward his wrist and away
again, and now that he could think clearly again, he realized he
had not needed to look for the switch. He grimaced and got out
of bed.
He managed to stub his toe on the way to the bathroom.
Squinting in the brighter light at the bathroom mirror, Nick
sprayed a white foam into his hand. He spread it over his
stubble, then rinsed his hands. He rested his hands on the sink
until, moments later, he picked at the edge of the foam, which
had turned hard, like a rubbery mask. With an abrupt, firm yank,
he ripped the whole thing off his face, and he screamed. He
inspected his smooth cheeks as he dropped the foam mask into the
toilet and flushed. As the mask swirled in the water, it
dissolved, leaving what was left of his stubble in the bubbling
remains.
***
Nick was feeling a little more awake by the time the
elevator reached his floor. Bing. The doors opened. As Nick
entered the empty elevator, it said, "Good morning!" in a voice
inhumanly cheerful for this time of day.
"Morning," Nick forced himself to say.
"What floor please?" The elevator's voice was copied from a
nerdy, bow-tied comic actor of a decade past. Mixed in with the
overdone cheerfulness was a nasal twang.
"One," Nick said softly.
"Thank you!" The elevator sounded as pleased as Pinocchio
had been at becoming a real boy.
The door closed, and the elevator dropped two floors before
it had to stop for another rider. The doors opened, and a
frowning, burly guy got on with Nick. The man's coat sleeves
were so short, his digital watch showed on the arm with the
briefcase.
"Good morning!" said the cheerful elevator.
"Morning." The man's nod took in Nick. He turned around to
face the door and assumed standard elevator posture, dutifully
looking at the motionless floor indicator.
"What floor please?"
"Five," said the man. His voice seemed to be naturally loud