 Are you burned up at the high price of turkeys? Can't get eggs for your pumpkin pie? Want to get away from it all? We offer you escape. You're trapped in a remote valley of the Andes, walled in by sheer rock precipices. What is surrounding you, closing in on you, is a band of blind men who want your eyes. Escape, produced and directed by William N. Robson and carefully plotted to free you from the four walls of today for a half hour of high adventure. Tonight, we escape to the high mountains of Ecuador and to a remarkable world where sight is unknown, as H. G. Wells imagined it in his curious story, The Country of the Blind. My name is Ibarra. I am a mining engineer in Quito, Ecuador, high in the towering Andes. And up until a year ago, my chief sport was mountain climbing. My last climb was an attempt to scale the remote and forbidding peak of Parascota Petal, a 20,000-foot crag, unconquered by man. It is unconquered still, 3,000 feet from the icy summit. Our party turned back and fled for their lives. All of us escaped except one, a guide named Nunes, who slipped and fell over the precipice, disappearing into the vast chasm that yawned 10,000 feet beneath us. The horror of that man's fall has haunted my dreams for a year. Because of it, I have forsaken mountain climbing for the rest of my life. And that decision still stands, even though today I have seen Nunes. He was sitting on the steps of my shack when I arrived at the mine this morning. At first I didn't recognize him. He was so much changed. I thought he was a ragged beggar asking alms. Is it you, senor Ibarra? My name is Ibarra. Yes, what do you want? You do not know me, senor. I know. I... You look like a man I knew once, but he is dead. Dead under slopes of Paris Côte de Petle? Nunes. No, it couldn't be you. Nunes. That is my name, senor. At least that is the name I remember. But you fell, I saw you fall. Yes, it's impossible that you could have lived. Perhaps the gods of the mountain had some reason to spare me. Nunes, if we'd had any idea that you were alive, but you went down, down thousands of feet, we couldn't even attempt to find your body. No, I do not blame you. You could not have reached me. And if you had, I should not have welcomed you at first, but then later. What do you mean, Nunes? Senor, you will not believe what I have to tell. I can hardly believe that I'm seeing you, talking to you. But what has happened to you? You remember that night, the night I fell? Yes. We had been toiling all day, inching our way up a steep ice wall. And as darkness came, we found a narrow ledge, barely three feet wide. It's not very wide, but we can get our shoulder wall up, cut off some of this wind. Hell, that'll be welcome. Yes, but first we'll rest a moment. Look at that icy devil up there glistening in the moonlight. There's another 3,000 feet of sheer ice wall to the top. Well, I can see why no one's ever made it. Think we should go on? I don't know. Nunes, what do you think? It is not my place to say, Senor. I was hired to guide you to the top. I agreed. What do you really think? If I believed in the guards of the mountain, as the Indians do, I should be frightened now. Why? Because we have invaded the forbidden circle. This part of the Andes is unmapped and unknown, Senor. And therefore shrouded in superstition, eh? It is an easy thing to believe strange things in this white loneliness. Some of the legends are really fascinating. I've heard of one, something about a hidden valley called the Country of the Blind. Yes, it is supposed to be somewhere down there, below us. A fertile valley which was settled many centuries ago, and then cut off by the great landslide of Aroca. But why are the Country of the Blind? Well, even before it was isolated, the people developed a strange illness. All of them slowly went blind. After that, their children were born blind. And the legend is that the valley was the home of the mountain gods. It was too beautiful for human eyes. It's all nonsense. Yes, of course. It would be a pleasure to find it, though. You know, the old proverb, in the Country of the Blind, the one-eyed man is king? I doubt that we could ever find it. I even doubt if it exists. Of course not. I was only joking. Yes. Well, now if you're arrested, we'll make the shelter wall. Right. I'll give you a hand in a minute. Believe me, Ibarra. For two pesos, I'd give up this climb. I never realized how... Hang on! In one horrible instant, my foot had slipped on the treacherous ledge and I'd gone over, falling far out into the icy black night, falling down, down. I fell perhaps a thousand feet. Then I felt a heavy stinging impact of snow. I'd fallen on an almost perpendicular snow slope. And now I was sliding down, down, tumbling over and over. And then suddenly I realized that my own motion had almost stopped. And it was the snow that was moving. I was riding an avalanche. At almost the same moment, I went over the second precipice. It was higher than the first. Much higher, perhaps 4,000 feet. I fell with the snow for what seemed minutes, every second expecting the terrible final impact. But the impact never came. Miracle of miracles. That shear wall blended almost imperceptibly into another steep snow slope. And again I was sliding. The slope curved away. I felt myself slow down. And finally I rolled to a stop and lay still. When I awoke it was morning and I was covered with snow, I shook off the cold white blanket on my chest and rested a moment. And then I rolled over on my back and looked up. I'd almost stopped as I saw from where I'd fallen, where the mountain towered 10,000 feet above me. And carefully I felt it myself. My clothes were torn. I was bruised and bleeding. I ached in every muscle, but I had not a single broken bone. I lay there and offered up a prayer to the gods of the mountain. Far below me lay a lush valley sparkling in the morning sunlight. I could see the stately trees and the green meadows fresh with dew. I started down the mountain, but it was still an arduous descent. The farther down I got, the more I realized the beauty of the scene. Why, this was a hidden paradise I'd fallen into and I was the first man ever to see it. So I thought, but I was wrong. I realized that first when I saw the cultivation in the meadows and then the walks, well-kept stone walks laid in a symmetrical pattern all over the valley. And then I saw them. There were men and women lying under the trees and resting in the fields. Nearby a collection of windowless huts marked a village and the plastering of the houses was done in a wild variety of colors. I thought to myself, the plasterer who did that must have been blind as a bat. Then I saw two of the men quite close to me. They were standing on a bridge over the little stream. They were dressed in arduous clothing. There was a strange look about their faces. They failed to notice me as I approached until I shouted. Suddenly they looked out pretendably in my direction. I waved wildly at them, but they took no notice where the fools must be blind. Blind? Could it be that I have fallen into the country of the blind? Hmm. In the country of the blind, a one-eyed man can be king. Hello there. You needn't be afraid. I won't hurt you. I come in peace. It is a man or a spirit come down from the rocks. Oh, I'm a man all right. Just like you, but I've had a miraculous escape and now I find myself here in your valley. Valley? Valley? Come hither, let me feel of you. Yes, certainly. Here, my arm is my face. You see, I am a man like yourself. Here, feel my lips. They move with speech. Oh, careful there. Gently, those are my eyes. Eyes? Eyes? That is strange. Feel this career. Yes, I feel. Careful. Feel the eyelids flutter? He is but imperfectly formed. Some strange bulge there, unseemly. No, no, you see, your eyes are shrunken in, but mine are whole. I can see. See? Pedro, he is a strange wild one. Where does he come from? He must have come down out of the rocks. No, from over the mountains, beyond there where men can see. From Bogota, where there are a hundred thousand people and a city stretches out of sight. Sight? What strange words he uses, without meaning, and feel the coarseness of his hair, like a llamas. Our fathers have told us men may be made by forces of nature. It is the warmth of things, and moisture, and rottenness. Let us lead him to the elders. But no one need lead me. I can see. See? Yes, of course. I didn't see your water bucket. His senses are still imperfect. He stumbles and talks on meaning words. Lead him by the hand, Pedro. But look, I... Oh, well, all right. These people had been blind for centuries. They had forgotten even the words associated with seeing. And they thought I was an idiot, only half-formed. Especially when they led me into the pitch blackness of one of their windowless huts. And I stumbled over someone. A thousand pardons, Madonna Sirota. He's a clumsy one. I'm sorry I fell down. I couldn't see in the darkness. Who is this? And what is he saying? He is but newly formed, good father. He has come down from the rocks. He stumbles as he walks. And mingles words that mean nothing with his speech. He is a wild man out of the rocks. No, I come from Bogota, over the mountains. You hear? Bogota. He uses wild words. His mind is hardly formed. He has only the beginnings of speech. Bogota? Yes. I come from the great world where men have eyes and see. That must be his name, Bogota. He stumbled twice as we came further. He must be taught. No, you don't understand. I can see, but not in the dark. To you, darkness or light, is all the same. But to me, to us who can see. To us outside in the world beyond the mountains. Mountains? What are mountains? Very well, then, beyond the rocks. There is nothing beyond the rocks. That is the end of the world. Oh, but surely you must realize that there is nothing beyond the rocks. That is the end of the world. Oh, but surely you must realize that the sky above covers more than just this valley. Sky? Above? There is nothing above but the roof of rock. He is very raw, my children. He shall have to be taught from the beginnings. And I'll take him away. Feed him. It shall be done, good father. But guide him. See that he does not stumble over my daughter again. Do not fear, father. I shall guide him myself and feed him. Very well. Come. Take my hand. Thank you. It'll be a pleasure to get outside again out of this darkness. Come this way. Yes. What is your name? Medina Sarote. Mine is Juan. Juan Nunes. Oh. Oh, sunlight. Oh, this is better. And now I may look at you. Why? You're beautiful. I cannot tell you what a wonderful thing you are to see. Please, you must be careful. Why? If you do not learn quickly and see speaking such strange words, they may not be so kind to you. They might be angry. They may destroy you. This thought had not occurred to me. And suddenly I had a twinge of fear. Still the proverb kept running through my mind. In the country of the blind, a one-eyed man is king. But try as I would, I cannot make them understand my wonderful gift of sight. They thought me stupid and untaught, almost an idiot. Day by day I learned their peaceful ways, but they could not learn mine. I was beginning to get on my nerves. There's two, perhaps. Bogota? Bogota, come hither. Bogota, you move not. No, and I won't you all beetle. I'll show you, I'll leave the path. Bogota, trample not on the grass. It is not allowed. How did you know I stepped on the grass? I heard, of course. Heard, but I didn't make a sound. Why do you not come when I call you? Can you not hear the path as you walk? I can see it. Cease this folly and follow the sound of my feet. Oh, my time will come. You will learn. There is much to learn in the world. Has no one ever told you in the country, the blind, the one-eyed man is king? Blind? What is blind? Oh, never mind. Bogota, I must warn you. Just keep quiet and learn. And stop this nonsense about seeing. Nonsense, is it? I'll show you, I've taken enough of your insults. Unformed mind, got no sense yet. I'll be king here. I can see and I'll be king. Bogota, stop it. No, I'm through with your orders. I'll show you when an advantage site can be. I can hit you and hurt you, and you can't see me to strike back. Bogota, put down that spade. You devil, your ears are sharp, aren't they? Bogota, there must be no violence. I haven't. I'll hit you if you come any closer. I swear I will. Put down that spade and come off the grass. You don't understand. You are blind. And I can see. I can see. Bogota, I'll hurt you. I swear I will. Leave me alone! I hit him with a spade and ran. Over the wall, outside the valley, back to the rocks, back to the cliff I'd come from. When I reached that sheer rock wall, I knew there was no place to go. For two days and nights, I stayed outside the valley. I grew hungry and cold. Then I realized the hopelessness of my position. I was trapped. I must spend the rest of my life here. There was no way out. Though I went back. I confess, so chief of the elders, I was mad. I admit, I was only newly made. That is better. And do you still think you can see? No, no, no. That was folly. The words mean nothing less than nothing. And what is over here? Rock. There's a roof above the world. A roof of rock and very smooth. Very well. And... Please, before you ask me any more, give me food or I shall die. Very well. Give him food. Ah, Medina Salade. Yes, father. And after that, we must put him to the most menial tasks in the village. Guard him well. And perhaps... perhaps he shall learn yet. Thank you. Thank you. Oh, that is better. You are kind, Medina Salade. Very kind. I am glad you came back. You are? If they were all like you, I should never have run away. What was that word you said I was? Beautiful. You are. Even your eyes, they're not shrunken depressions like the others. It means something nice. Beautiful. Something very nice, Medina Salade. Tell me. Why is it you have no husband? I... I have a disfigurement. These long hairs. Oh, your eyelashes? Oh, but they're beautiful. They are considered a disfigurement. You're the most lovely girl in the valley. But they wouldn't know, would they? You... You have no lover? No. Medina Sarote. What do you think of me? Do you think of me as an idiot like all the rest of you? Oh, no. No, you have much to learn, but you will learn it, I'm sure. And you are kind and gentle. And your voice is soft. You speak words that are soft and warm. No one has ever spoken such words to me. Then I shall speak them often, Medina Sarote. You are the only one in this valley. In this whole world I care for. And so it began. I, the village idiot. The slave boy who dreamed to be king. I, with my eyes still whole, fell in love with Medina Sarote, the daughter of the elder of the village. Only to her could I open my heart without fear. Only to her could I speak of the beauty I could see around me. Oh, it is a beautiful valley, Medina Sarote. Green with grass and yellow with sunlight. And flowers, bright flowers dotting the hills. And in the cool of the night, the stars gleam like diamonds in the sky. Oh, the words sound lovely. But what are stars? No, you wouldn't understand. And what do you mean in the cool of the night? You still get that confused one. The night is warm. The day is cool. Oh, no, it is you here who have them backwards. Because the darkness means nothing to you. You work in the cool of the night and sleep in the heat of the day. You are teasing me. No. What does it matter? All that matters is you. You, you. Here beside me, Medina Sarote. I love you. And I love you. I... I know they still think me an idiot, but you listen to what I say and you don't think me an idiot, do you? Oh, no. I like to hear you speak. Then will you... Would you marry me? Yes. Yes, Juan. I will marry you. I will not have it. But father... He is an idiot. He has delusions. He cannot do anything right. But he is getting better. He's better than he was. And he is strong and kind. Stronger and kinder than anyone in the world. And he loves me and I love him. No, I will not have it. Great, Sire. If you please. What is it, good doctor? I have examined Bogota and the case is clear to me. I think very probably he might be cured. And how might that be done? His brain is affected by something. I believe I know what it is. Those square things he calls eyes. Where we have but an agreeable depression, he has great lumps with flaps over them that move in long hairs. Consequently his brain is in a constant state of irritation. But what can be done to cure him? Very simple surgical operation. Remove the cause of the irritation. We will merely cut out his eyes. But Juan, they say it will make you well. It will make you look like us. But you don't understand my dinosaurity. My world is sight. You would not want me to lose my most precious possession? I don't know. There are so many beautiful things to see. The flowers, the far sky with its drifting clouds, the sun sets the stars. And you, if only just to see you it is good to have sight. And I would never see you again. Juan, I love to hear you say these things even though I know it is just your imagination. But my dear, these things are real. No, they are fancies. This is real. If you will let them cut out your eyes, we can be together always. And... you want me to? Oh, if you would, if only you would. What else can I do? Oh, my dearest Juan. My dearest with a tender voice. I will repay you. Oh, Madonna. Be brave. And carry my voice in your thoughts. Now I must go. And tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow will be forever. Goodbye. Goodbye, Madonna. I suppose I knew it then, when I said that. I only meant to go up on the rocks and look out over the valley to spend my last days feasting my eyes, my precious eyes on the wonderful, beautiful world of light and color. But when I got there, it was too beautiful. Too lovely this valley, this home of the mountain gods. Beautiful and forbidden. I drank it in. The green of the fields, the blue of the gently curving stream, the orange of the lichen in the rocky crevices. I climbed higher to see the great snow-capped peaks towering above and away to the distant sky and still higher as the shadows turned the snow to purple and crimson and deep blue. The valley now was far below and as beautiful as a painting. But like a painting, it seemed unreal. Medina Sarote was small and far away a distant dream and the world of sight was here all around, overpowering, wonderful. I turned and began to climb up that sheer rock wall. How many months it took me to make my way out over those mountains, over glaciers and snow fields and sheer precipices, I cannot guess how I lived to the cold and hunger of it. I cannot tell you, but I'm here at last back from the country of the blind. Good heavens, man, what an experience. Yes, terrible and wonderful. But you aren't sorry you came back. Sorry? I see her face clearly now. It is the only thing I see. Nunes, come, you need food. Here, take my hand. Thank you. Where is it, senor Ibarra? Nunes? Yes. The gods of the mountain have had their revenge. Those months of crawling over the snow and ice with the sun glaring down. Yes, I am blind. Escape is produced and directed by William N. Robson. And tonight presented the country of the blind by H.G. Wells, adapted for radio by John Dunkel, with Paul Freese as Nunez, Peggy Weber as Madinus Arote, Bill Conrad as Ibarra, and Harry Bartela's Correa. The special musical score was conceived and conducted by Sy Fewer. Next week... When you're tired from a hard day at the office, or your back aches from bending over a hot stove, next week at the same time, when you want to get away from it all, we offer you escape. This is CBS, the broadcasting system.