I agreed and left. I spent the next two weeks doing nothing but looking at our world. Do you think you really appreciate your sight? If you knew you had but a few weeks of sight left, what would you do with it? Visit famous landmarks? See the country? If you thought about it, I think you'd do the same as I did. I began to enjoy what was close at hand, the surroundings I had lived in. Everyday sights held a certain fascination for me. The stark black and white mosaic of a city at the tag end of winter; the sheer, raucous color of the magazines at your local newsstand; the smooth patterns of hues and tints in a department store window display.
And how much do you appreciate springtime? The few weeks of the year when the city loses its look of drabness and little plots of grass and flowers add color to it—like brilliant strips of cloth in a dirty patchwork quilt. Then there were the kids roller skating down the sidewalks, the girls' pigtails flying and the boys' knickers flapping in the breeze. And later on, in the business blocks, the soft glow of neon against the swirling fog of a warm spring night.
That was the last spring I'll ever see. I'll be able to smell the flowers and feel the warmth of the sun and run my fingers through the green grass. But I'll never see it again.
After the few weeks were up I returned to the professor—still curious about what lay beyond the spectrum limits. There were the eye washes and the drops and then the heavy strips of white cloth wrapped around my head, keeping your world out and bounding mine with a rim of black. My last look at the world was of some kids playing in the city streets, and some bread crumbs spread out on the window sill for the birds. After that a quick view of the lab—a jungle of glass retorts and vats filled with oily chemicals—and a closeup of Professor Martin's gnarled hands holding the bandages for my eyes.
I lay on the cot in the lab for the next few days, listening to your world and feeling it and remembering it; the good and the bad, the adventuresome and the dull. I could hear the newsboy hawking his papers and the shouts of the kids and the clatter of the main street trolley. I could smell the factory smoke and the heavy, animal odor drifting up from the stockyards. I could hear the people in the lab and Professor Martin scurrying about, asking me how I felt, and toward the end, telling me that in a few hours the bandages would come off.
Two weeks ago the professor came into the lab and started tearing at the adhesive, stripping away the layers of white cloth. Even when he had the bandages all the way off, I kept my eyes closed, almost afraid to open them.
My eyes had to focus first. Everything was so damned brilliant and indistinct. Then my sight cleared and suddenly everything was very plain.
Well, that's about it. There isn't much more to tell. It hasn't been too boring to listen to me for fifteen minutes, has it? I can tell you haven't been too bored because you haven't touched your beer, have you? It's getting warm—and you know what they say about warm beer....
What did I see? You really want to know, don't you?