Part 13 (1/2)
”Very well.” Clarke stepped to one side and wheeled over a large device that appeared to be a high-tech pair of binoculars mounted on a bracket between two enormous steel drums, one per side. He rolled the unwieldy apparatus up to J.B.'s face and lowered the binocular section until it was even with the Armorer's eyes.
”Is that bad, not being able to see that line?” J.B. asked.
”No. I wish you still had your other pair of spectacles so I could compare your vision with and without them, but we'll have to make do.”
”What's this hunk of metal I'm peeping through?”
”This is a corrector, Mr. Dix. I am going to switch by hand various kinds of lenses inside this device until you are able to see the eye chart more clearly. This is a much quicker way and can be handled without putting on and taking off a thousand pairs of gla.s.ses. We'll start with the right eye. Each time I change the lenses, let me know if you can see better, or if the lens has decreased your vision even further.”
Several minutes pa.s.sed, with J.B. informing Clarke which lens worked best. The small man made notes on a sheet of paper as he worked. Finally he opened both sides of the binocularlike device and allowed J.B. to peer through at the same time.
”This is great,” the Armorer said enthusiastically.
”I can see even better than I could with my old gla.s.ses.”
”I'm not surprised. Vision changes over time, Mr. Dix. Still, twenty-forty vision in one eye and twenty-thirty in the other with corrective lenses isn't very good eyesight.”
”Good enough for me.”
Clarke wheeled the correction mechanism back to the corner and took up his seated position in front of J.B. once more.
”Now comes the hard part,” he said. ”I have to find an existing pair of lenses and frames. I have no way of manufacturing or cutting the gla.s.s myself.”
”Actually I need two pairs. How do you get gla.s.ses, anyway?”
”I buy them. I have a standing offer of jack for any pair of prescription gla.s.ses in decent condition. One fellow brings in pairs by the dozens.” While talking, Clarke picked up an eye patch from the table.
”What's the patch for? I thought we were finished,” J.B. asked.
”It's not a patch, it's an occluder. I'm going to run an accommodative and convergence test. At your age, you need to know what kind of physical shape your eyes are in, and a few more tests will give you a complete exam,” the optician replied. He paused and shrugged. ”Well, as complete as I can do anyway. We might as well finish. You are paying for the package.”
”Guess so. Go ahead, then.”
A reader card was moved up to each of J.B.'s eyes while the test was conducted. Clarke then used a pocket pencil flash to see if his patient's pupils responded properly by constricting.
”Mmm,” Clarke said. ”Your left eye, which is your strong eye, isn't responding according to procedure.”
”What does that mean?”
”I want you to be honest with me. Your future eyesight may depend on it. I need to know when you first noticed that your gla.s.ses perhaps weren't as effective as before. Take firing with your blaster, for example. Are shots you were making previously now taking longer to line up? Are they as accurate as before?”
”Well, I suppose I noticed some vision loss a year back. Mebbe two. Hard to say.”
”I understand. On a day-to-day basis, one doesn't notice such things,” Clarke replied. ”Describe what you are seeing right now.”
J.B. snorted. ”Well, I see you.”
”You're looking directly at me. Use your peripheral vision. What's to the left? No, dammit, don't move your head!”
J.B. froze, angered by the doctor's outburst, and angered by what the optician had stumbled onto, a deep secret the Armorer hadn't even dared admit to himself.
”II Doc, I don't know,” J.B. whispered. ”I can't see to the left all that well.”
Clarke kept his voice modulated, professional. ”To the right?”
J.B. hesitated before answering, ”Even worse.”
”Yet straight on?” Clarke stepped out and faced him.
”I see good. Perfect with those lenses you tried out.”
”The loss of some of your peripheral vision, is it like looking down a tunnel at times, Mr. Dix?”
”Yeah. Exactly. Some days it doesn't bother me at all. Other times I have to be careful. Hasn't been life-threatening yet.”
”I fear it will be depending on when it flares up and what your situation entails. Have you told anyone about the problem? Your lady companion?”
”No.”
”Why not?”
”Why worry her? I use my eyes constantly. Last thing my friends need is a half-blind buddy d.o.g.g.i.n' their heels,” J.B. said, and then he glared at the blurry image of Clarke he could see before him. ”You know what this is, don't you?”
The doctor hedged. ”Without proper testing, I can't be sure”
”So, do the test!” J.B. snapped.
”I can't. I would need a measurement of the intraocular pressure of the eye to be able to say for sure. The process is called tonometry, and it involves a special probe and I don't have the device. Even if I did, I'm not sure how to perform the test correctly. Your cornea would have to be anesthetized, for one thing, and such procedures are beyond me.”
J.B. sighed deeply, dreading what else the optician had to say and needing to hear it all the same. ”So, what's causing the problem?”
Clarke stood up and opened a cabinet, removing a well-worn green hardcover book with full-color ill.u.s.trations of the human eye. He pointed to various ones as he explained. ”High pressure inside the eye causes damage to the optic nerve, Mr. Dix. Understand, your eyes, all of our eyes, have a remarkable drainage system. Fluid comes in and goes out from within the eyeball, keeping the pressure consistent and higher than that of the outside atmosphere so the eye doesn't collapse.”
”Like diving, when you're underwater. Come up too fast, you get the bends.”
”Yes. Like that. What has happened here is that your drainage system has gotten clogged. Continual pressure creates a subsequent loss of the visual field, which is what is creating your 'tunnel vision.'” Clarke hesitated, and licked his lips. ”This condition is called glaucoma, and it sounds like you've progressed beyond the early stages.”
”Dark night.” When J.B. spoke the words, even he was aware of the black humor the epithet now held.
”It's not your fault, Mr. Dix. The process is gradual and insidious. You might have decided your continual loss of sight was due to age or old gla.s.ses. It's not like you woke up one morning completely blind and had to deal with the problem that way. From what I've read, and the other cases I've encountered, there isn't a d.a.m.n thing you could have done to stop it from happening.” J.B. stood up, pacing the room. ”No cure?”
”There were medicines once. Eye drops. Even surgery. All lost. I can tell you what needs to be done, but I can't help you in doing it. New gla.s.ses, yes. Those, I can find. Surgery or medicine, no. I'm not trained and I don't have the drugs.”
”Yeah, pulling the gla.s.ses off a dead man's eyes doesn't take much in the way of brains,” J.B. said angrily.
”I perform a service,” Clarke said. ”You don't have to get nasty about my methods. There are no longer any one-hour eyegla.s.s-manufacturing stores. I'm telling you like it is. Without more tests, I'd still be guessing to the extent of the damage. From the journals I've studied, this disorder is so highly individualistic that treatment had to be specifically tailored to each patient's condition.”