It coughed once, sending a beam of supersonic energy into the bodies of both men.
The effect was the same as if they had both been crowned with baseball bats.
Little pinpoints of light against a sea of darkness.
I'm cold, Houston thought. And I'm sick.
He couldn't tell whether his eyes were open or closed—and he didn't much care.
He tried to move his arms and legs, found he couldn't, and gave it up.
He blinked.
My eyes must be open, he thought, if I can blink.
Well, then, if his eyes were open, why couldn't he see anything? All he could see were the little pinpoints of light against a background of utter blackness.