Then it struck.
Like a fearful, billowing blackness rising out of the depths of Hell itself, it washed over him. It sucked at his very soul, corroding, destroying, a wind of darkness where the very concept of light was unknown.
He was not conscious of his screaming until he heard his own dying voice and grew slowly aware of the sudden rawness of his throat. He heard another screaming and it sounded like Sam. Dimly, he wondered what had happened to Sam.
Tom was bending over him, patting his face with a cold towel and murmuring, "Wake up, Jim! You're all right now. You're all right."
He opened his eyes and saw Tom, white-faced. He turned and looked at Sam, whose head lolled sluggishly while a low whimpering came from his lips.
"I'm all right," said Jim weakly. "Take care of Sam."
Exhausted, he leaned back and closed his eyes another moment. Sweat oozed from every pore of his skin, cold, fear-inspired sweat.
An hour later, he felt completely recovered from the experience, except that his knees were still a little wobbly when he tried his legs.
"We've got to try it again," Jim said. "Can you cut down the intensity a little? Better still, how about rigging up an intensity control that we can operate for ourselves?"