ulked with his hands jammed into his trousers. Dal sat by
himself feeling very much alone, with Fuzzy peering discreetly out of
his jacket pocket.

He knew the Black Doctor was speaking to him, but he didn't try to
reply. He had known from the moment the surgeon came out of the
operating room that he was in trouble. It was just a matter of time
before he would have to answer for his decision here, and it was even
something of a relief that the moment came sooner rather than later.

And the more Dal considered his position, the more indefensible it
appeared. Time after time he had thought of Dr. Arnquist's words about
judgment and skill. Without one the other was of little value to a
doctor, and whatever his skill as a surgeon might have been in the
Moruan operating room, he now realized that his judgment had been poor.
He had allowed himself to panic at a critical moment, and had failed to
see how far the surgery had really progressed. By deciding to wait for
help to arrive instead of taking over at once, he had placed the patient
in even greater jeopardy than before. In looking back, Dal could see
clearly that it would have been far better judgment to proceed on his
own.

But that was how it looked _now_, not _then_, and there was an old
saying that the "retrospectoscope" was the only infallible instrument in
all medicine.

In any event, the thing was done, and couldn't be changed, and Dal knew
that he could only stand on what he had done, right or wrong.

"Well, I'm waiting," Black Doctor Tanner said, scowling at Dal through
his thick-rimmed glasses. "I want to know who was responsible for this
fiasco, and why it occurred in the first place."

Dal spread his hands hopelessly. "What do you want me to say?" he asked.
"I took a careful history of the situation as soon as we arrived here,
and then I examined the patient in the operating room. I thought the
surgery might be over my head, and couldn't see attempting it if a
hospital ship could be reached in time. I thought the patient could be
maintained safely long enough for us to call for help."

"I see," the Black Doctor said. "You've done micro-surgery before?"

"Yes, sir."

"And organ transplant work?"

"Yes, sir."

The Black Doctor opened a folder and peered at it over his glasses. "As
a matter of fact, you spent two solid years in micro-surgical training
in Hospital Philadelphia, with all sorts of glowing reports from your
preceptors about what a flair