Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           ThefatblackboystandsoutthereinthehallwhereIcanseehim,lookingallaroundandgiggling.Hewalkstowardthedormdoor,slow,wipingthewetgraypalmsinhisarmpits.ThelightfromtheNurses’Stationthrowshisshadowonthedormwallbigasanelephant,getssmallerashewalkstothedormdoorandlooksin.Hegigglesagainandunlocksthefuseboxbythedoorandreachesin."Tha’sright,babies,sleeptight."

           Twistsaknob,andthewholefloorgoestoslippingdownawayfromhimstandinginthedoor,loweringintothebuildinglikeaplatforminagrainelevator!

           Notathingbutthedormfloormoves,andwe’reslidingawayfromthewallsanddoorandthewindowsofthewardatahellofaclip—beds,bedstands,andall.Themachinery—probablyacog-and-trackaffairateachcorneroftheshaft—isgreasedsilentasdeath.TheonlysoundIhearistheguysbreathing,andthatdrummingunderusgettinglouderthefartherdownwego.Thelightofthedormdoorfivehundredyardsbackupthisholeisnothingbutaspeck,dustingthesquaresidesoftheshaftwithadimpowder.Itgetsdimmeranddimmertillafarawayscreamcomesechoingdownthesidesoftheshaft—"Stayback!"—andthelightgoesoutaltogether.

           Thefloorreachessomekindofsolidbottomfardowninthegroundandstopswithasoftjar.It’sdeadblack,andIcanfeelthesheetaroundmechokingoffmywind.JustasIgetthesheetuntied,thefloorstartsslidingforwardwithalittlejolt.SomekindofcastorsunderitIcan’thear.Ican’tevenheartheguysaroundmebreathing,andIrealizeallofasuddenit’sbecausethatdrumming’sgraduallygotsoloudIcan’thearanythingelse.Wemustbesquareinthemiddleofit.