sutured into place vessel by vessel was more than any patient
could be expected to survive.

Yet Dal had known when he saw the second cardiogram that the attempt
would have to be made. Now he worked swiftly, his frail body engulfed in
the voluminous surgical gown, his thin fingers working carefully with
the polished instruments. Speed and skill were all that could save the
Black Doctor now, to offer him the one chance in a thousand that he had
for survival.

But the speed and skill had to be Dal's. Dal knew that, and the
knowledge was like a lead weight strapped to his shoulders. If Black
Doctor Hugo Tanner was fighting for his life now, Dal knew that he too
was fighting for his life--the only kind of life that he wanted, the
life of a physician.

Black Doctor Tanner's antagonism to him as an alien, as an incompetent,
as one who was unworthy to wear the collar and cuff of a physician from
Hospital Earth, was common knowledge. Dal realized with perfect clarity
that if he failed now, his career as a physician would be over; no one,
not even himself, would ever be entirely certain that he had not
somehow, in some dim corner of his mind, allowed himself to fail.

Yet if he had not made the attempt and the Black Doctor had died before
help had come, there would always be those who would accuse him of
delaying on purpose.

His mouth was dry; he longed for a drink of water, even though he knew
that no water could quench this kind of thirst. His fingers grew numb as
he worked, and moment by moment the sense of utter hopelessness grew
stronger in his mind. Tiger worked stolidly across the table from him,
inexpert help at best because of the sketchy surgical training he had
had. Even his solid presence in support here did not lighten the burden
for Dal. There was nothing that Tiger could do or say that would help
things or change things now. Even Fuzzy, waiting alone on his perch in
the control room, could not help him now. Nothing could help now but his
own individual skill as a surgeon, and his bitter determination that he
must not and would not fail.

But his fingers faltered as a thousand questions welled up in his mind.
Was he doing this right? This vessel here ... clamp it and tie it? Or
dissect it out and try to preserve it? This nerve plexus ... which one
was it? How important? How were the blood pressure and respirations
doing? Was the Black Doctor holding his own under the assault of the
surgery?

The more Dal