I didn't think so either for just beyond my range of vision seemed a hint of something else. I caught "glimpses" of something--I couldn't make out exactly what. There seemed to be vague suggestions of form and color and life, indistinct figures that capered and grimaced just beyond my view. There was nothing definite, nothing that I could draw a picture of and describe like you could an automobile or a building. There were just suggestions, a feeling of something more. There was a hint of life in the masses of winking light that beckoned and burned. The next day the professor brought my eyes back to normal. Familiar objects had a sudden fascination that quickly faded when I had regained normal vision for an hour or so. It was a prosaic world once again. Radios and aerials were just--cabinets of wood and plastic and glass tubes and strips of rusty wire and metal. I wasn't sure the experiment was over. I asked the professor if there was anything that would take me further along the scale, beyond, perhaps, even the spectrum as we knew it. He twisted his hands nervously behind his back and walked over and looked out the laboratory window. "I could do it for you, Charles, but I'm not sure that I could bring you back. Your eyes would be stranded in that world of yours. You could never look at ours again." He turned from the window and faced me. "Why don't you forget it for a few weeks and then come back here and if you still want to, we'll continue the experiment." * * * * * I agreed and left. I spent the next two weeks doing nothing but looking at our world. Do you think you really appreciate your sight? If you knew you had but a few weeks of sight left, what would you do with it? Visit famous landmarks? See the country? If you thought about it, I think you'd do the same as I did. I began to enjoy what was close at hand, the surroundings I had lived in. Everyday sights held a certain fascination for me. The stark black and white mosaic of a city at the tag end of winter; the sheer, raucous color of the magazines at your local newsstand; the smooth patterns of hues and tints in a department store window display. And how much do you appreciate springtime? The few weeks of the year when the city loses its look of drabness and little plots of grass and flowers add color to it--like brilliant strips of cloth in a dirty patchwork quilt. Then there were the kids roller skating down the sidewalks, the girls' pigtails flying and the boys' knickers flapping in the breeze. And later on, in the business blocks, the soft glow of neon against the swirling fog of a warm spring night. That was the last spring I'll ever see. I'll be able to smell the flowers and feel the warmth of the sun and run my fingers through the green grass. But I'll never see it again.