In a moment Finley had the end of two twenty-foot strings in his hands, attached to two small, movable uprights which ran on runners in a lighted box on the wall. Straining his eyes to the utmost, he strove to adjust those small sticks until they were side by side. The major, silent and intent, made him do it three times, and then set him to peering through special lenses and trying to adjust them until a line of light cut the center of an electric bulb squarely. He peered through a stereoscope, and picked out different shades of pink and red from a collection of colored yarns. Finally, he was in front of the vision chart.
His eyes watered with the effort he made to read the twenty-twenty line, and there was perspiration on his forehead as he tried to pick out letter after letter from that blurred mass. He was weak as a kitten when he followed the major into the office.
The kindly medical man settled himself behind his desk.
“Jim, I’ve got to take you off flying.”
Finley’s tongue licked his parched lips as he stared at the major, like a man paralyzed.
“Your vision is way below normal—possibly due to overstrain—and more important still, your muscle balance is out of plumb. Your stereoscopic vision is imperfect. It may be curable with rest, or it may be simply the natural result of growing a little older. Anyhow, I must take you off.”
“But, doc, can’t you get a waiver from Washington? Once before—”
“In that case, Jim, I couldn’t recommend it. You can fly as an observer, of course.” Finley took the blow standing up.
“Sure. I won’t lose—any pay.”
He could scarcely comprehend the full meaning of what had happened as he walked slowly to the mess-hall. He was numb, somehow, mind and body. As the babble of voices from within reached him he gathered himself, and forced himself to lounge in and nod smilingly to a couple of visiting flyers. When he settled himself at the long table which the test pilots gathered around, he saw the unspoken question in the eyes of Redding, Sparks and the others.