by Isaac Asimov
"What are you going to do?" he demanded.
"He'll merely inoculate you. It'll take a second," Garth Jan assured him. "You see, the sense-organs in this case are several groups of cells in the cortex of the brain. They are activated by a hormone, a synthetic preparation of which is used to stimulate the dormant cells of the occasional Martian who is born-er- 'blind.' You'll receive the same treatment."
"Oh!-then Earthmen possess those cortex cells?"
"In a very rudimentary state. The concentrated hormone will activate them, but only for five minutes. After that time, they are literally blown out as a result of their unwonted activity. After that, they can't be re-activated under any circumstances."
Done Vol completed his last-minute preparations and approached Fields. Without a word, Fields extended his right arm and the hypodermic plunged in.
With the operation completed, the Terrestrial waited a moment or two and then essayed a shaky laugh, "I don't feel any change."
"You won't for about ten minutes," explained Garth. "It takes time. Just sit back and relax. Novi Lon has begun Bar Danin's 'Canals in the Desert'-it is my favorite-and when the hormone begins its work you will find yourself in the very mid dle of things."
Now that the die was cast irrevocably, Fields found himself stonily calm. Novi I,on played furiously and Garth Jan, at the Earthman's right, was already lost in the composition. Even Done Vol, the fussy doctor, had forgotten his peevishness for the nonce.
Fields snickered under his breath. The Martians listened attentively but to him the room was devoid of sound and-almost-of all other sensation as well.
What-no, it was impossible, of course-but what if it were just an elaborate practical joke. He stirred uneasily and put the thought from his mind angrily.
The minutes passed; Novi Lon's fingers flew; Garth Jan's expression was one of unfeigned delight. Then Lincoln Fields blinked his eyes rapidly. For a moment a nimbus of color seemed to surround the musician and his instrument. He couldn't identify it-but it was there. It grew and spread until the room was full of it.
Other hues came to join it and still others. They wove and wavered; expanding and con tracting; changing with lightning speed and yet staying the same.
Intricate patterns of brilliant tints formed and faded, beating in silent bursts of color upon the young man's eyeballs.
Simultaneously, there came the impression of sound. From a whisper it rose into a glorious, ringing shout that wavered up and down the scale in quivering tremolos. He seemed to hear every instrument from fife to bass viol simultaneously, and yet, paradoxically, each rang in his ear in solitary clearness.
And together with this, there came the more subtle sensation of odor. From a suspicion, a mere trace, it waxed into a phantasmal field of flowers. Delicate spicy scents followed each other in ever stronger succession; in gentle wafts of pleasure.
Yet all this was nothing. Fields knew that. Somehow, he knew that what he saw, heard, and smelt were mere delusions-mirages of a brain that frantically attempted to interpret an entirely new conception in the old, familiar ways.
Gradually, the colors and the sounds and the scents died. His brain was beginning to realize that that which beat upon it was something hitherto unexperienced. The effect of the hormone became stronger, and suddenly-in one burst-Fields realized what it was he sensed.
He didn't see it-nor hear it-nor smell it-nor taste it-nor feel it. He knew what it was but he couldn't think of the word for it. Slowly, he realized that there wasn't any word for it. Even more slowly, he realized that there wasn't even any concept for it.
Yet he knew what it was.
There beat upon his brain something that consisted of pure waves of enjoyment-something that lifted him out of himself and pitched him headlong into a univeise unknown to him earlier. He was falling through an endless eternity of-something. It wasn't sound or sight but it was-something.
Something that enfolded him and hid his surroundings from him-that's what it was. It was endless and infinite in its variety and with each crashing wave, he glimpsed a farther horizon, and the wonderful cloak of sensation became thicker -and softer-and more beautiful.
Then came the discord. Like a little crack at first-marring a perfect beauty.
Then spreading and branching and growing wider, until, finally, it split apart thunderously-though without a sound.
Lincoln Fields, dazed and bewildered, found himself back in the concert room again.
He lurched to his feet and grasped Garth Jan by the arm violently, "Garth! Why did he stop? Tell him to continue! Tell him!"
Garth Jan's startled expression faded into pity, "He is still playing, Lincoln."
The Earthman's befuddled stare showed no signs of understanding. He gazed about him with unseeing eyes. Novi Lon's fingers sped across the keyboard as nimbly as ever; the expression on his face was as rapt as ever. Slowly, the truth seeped in, and the Earthman's empty eyes filled with horror.
He sat down, uttering one hoarse cry, and buried his head in his hands.
The five minutes had passed! There could be no return!
Garth Jan was smiling-a smile of dreadful malice, "I had pitied you just a moment ago, Lincoln, but now I'm glad-glad! You forced this out of me-you made me do this. I hope you're satisfied, because I certainly am. For the rest of your life," his voice sank to a sibilant whisper, "you'll remember these five minutes and know what it is you're missing-what it is you can never have again.
You are blind, Lincoln,-blind!"
The Earthman raised a haggard face and grinned, but it was no more than a horrible baring of the teeth. It took every ounce of will-power he possessed to maintain an air of composure.
He did not trust himself to speak. With wavering step, he marched out of the room, head held high to the end.
And within, that tiny, bitter voice, repeating over and over again, "You entered a normal man! You leave blind-blind-BLIND."
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