"I can," Phil said, "but I won't, for fear of giving you a swelled head."
"As a matter of fact, it's silly of me to ask," she went on. "I wouldn't understand. I don't even know what 'pretty' means, although I have a dim idea what 'ugly' does. Color is another enigma to me. Somebody once told me it's like a smell, but when I get a bad cold, I can't remember what smells are like. It's like not being able to think of the word 'bubble' when your mouth is wide open—you think of 'Ah-uh.'"
"I'll tell you one thing about yourself," Phil said. "You don't look as though...."
"As though I was blind?"
"Correct. And it's incredible the way you get around. You never bump into anything, and you look people right in the eye when they talk to you."
"They say it's hearing faint echoes from an obstacle—like a bat. Personally, I feel the wall in front of me. I admit when my ears are stopped up I can't hear the wall, but I'm not so sure that's a convincing proof. It's the same with pit vipers—some smart investigator discovered that when you plug up their little heat-detecting organs—I guess those are the pits—they can't locate warm prey in the dark. Conversely, in the dark and not plugged up, they will strike at a hot-water bottle."
"Sounds pretty convincing to me," Phil said, and went back to the electron microscope.
"Tush," Katherine said. "How about people not wanting to smoke in the dark? Does that prove that the sense of taste depends on sight? I smoke. In fact, you might bring me a cigarette and an ashtray. The only reason most blind people don't smoke is they're afraid of fire." She took the cigarette Phil brought her. "Thanks."
"Aren't you afraid of fire?" he asked.