ignore the piping of sea-birds that flapped overhead, and the look of strained attention on Gresham’s face. It didn’t belong there, on a blind man’s face. Gresham sat as he had sat yesterday, bandaged eyes turned toward the sea beyond the boat as if he could see something out there invisible to ordinary eyes.

“Doctor, what does that look like out there?” he asked suddenly.

Startled, Black followed the direction of his pointing finger.

“Why, a porpoise, I think. It—no, now it’s gone.” He stared at his patient in amazement. “Gresham, are you still blind?”

Gresham laughed softly. “There’s a bandage over my eyes, isn’t there? Of course I’m blind.”

“Then how did you know about the porpoise?”

“It isn’t a porpoise.”

Black took a long breath. “What the devil’s the matter with you, Gresham?” he said.

“I wish I knew. I—” Gresham’s voice hesitated. Then he said with a sudden rush, “You could call it hallucination. I can see things. But not with my own eyes.”

“Yes?” Black’s tone was hushed. He was terribly afraid of interrupting this mood of explanation. “Go on.”

“Right now, for example,” Gresham said in his soft voice, “I’m seeing this ship, from about half a mile away. I can see the smoke, and the little figures on deck. I can see myself, and you. From a distance. Once in a while a wave blocks my sight. You’re holding something white.”

Black stared off into the blue distance, where what had seemed a porpoise had broken water once and vanished. He could see nothing but ocean now.

“I told you I started imagining things on the raft,” Gresham went on. “I kept seeing things from different angles. I knew I was blind, but there were flashes ... green vistas ... blue sky and white clouds....”

“Memory. Imagination.”

“It isn’t a porpoise,” Gresham said.

Black made an effort and pulled his mind into better coordination.

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