John worked every machine, then moved to a speed bag, a leather ball attached to the floor and ceiling by a thick elastic band. There were only certain allowed frequencies at which the bag could be hit, or it gyrated chaotically.
	His fist jabbed forward, cobra-quick, and struck. The speed bag moved, but slowly, like it was underwater … far too slowly considering how hard he had hit it. The tension on the line must be turned way down.
	He twanged the line and it hummed. It was tight.
	Was everything broken in this room?
	He pulled a pin from the locking collar on the bench press. John walked to the center section—supposedly one gee. He held the pin a meter off the deck and dropped it. It clattered on the deck.
	It looked as if it had fallen normally … but somehow it also looked slow to John.
	He set the timer on his watch and dropped the pin again. Forty-five-hundredths of a second.
	One meter in about a half second. He forgot the formula for distance and acceleration, so he ran through the calculus and rederived the equation. He even did the square root.
	He frowned. He had always struggled with math before.
	The answer was a gravitational acceleration of nine point eight meters per second squared. One standard gee.
	So the room was rotating correctly. He was out of calibration.