"Nothing? Nothing! That's my trouble. Nothing! I can't tell what's nothing and what's something. You say the bombs are duds. All right. But what if you're the dud, and the bombs are real? Answer me that!"
His expression was almost triumphant now.
"The bombs are duds," I said. "And you've gone and steamed up your glasses again. Why don't you turn down the humidity, so you can see for three minutes and running?"
Gascoigne leaned far forward, so far that he was perilously close to toppling, and peered directly into my face.
"Don't give me that," he said hoarsely. "Don't—give—me—that—stuff."
I froze right where I was. Gascoigne watched my eyes for a while. Then, slowly, he put his hand on his forehead and began to wipe it downward. He smeared it over his face, in slow motion, all the way down to his chin.
Then he took the hand away and looked at it, as though it had just strangled him and he couldn't understand why. And finally he spoke.
"It—isn't true," he said dully. "I'm not wearing any glasses. Haven't worn glasses since I was ten. Not since I broke my last pair—playing King of the Hill."
He sat down before the bombardier board and put his head in his hands.
"You win," he said hoarsely. "I must be crazy as a loon. I don't know what I'm seeing and what I'm not. You better take this gun away. If I fired it I might even hit something."