ly. "We made them ourselves, just for
this case."

"You mean you've never attempted this procedure before?"

"This was the first time. We don't know where we went wrong."

"You went wrong when you thought about trying it," Dal muttered. "What
anaesthesia?"

"Oxygen and alcohol vapor."

This was no surprise. With many species, alcohol vapor was more
effective and less toxic than other anaesthetic gases. "And you have a
heart-lung machine?"

"The finest available, on lease from Hospital Earth."

All the way through the city Dal continued the questioning, and by the
time they reached the hospital he had an idea of the task that was
facing him. He knew now that it was going to be bad; he didn't realize
just how bad until he walked into the operating room.

The patient was barely alive. Recognizing too late that they were in
water too deep for them, the Moruan surgeons had gone into panic, and
neglected the very fundamentals of physiological support for the
creature on the table. Dal had to climb up on a platform just to see the
operating field; the faithful wheeze of the heart-lung machine that was
sustaining the creature continued in Dal's ears as he examined the work
already done, first with the naked eye, then scanning the operative
field with the crude microscopic eyepiece.

"How long has he been anaesthetized?" he asked the shaggy operating
surgeon.

"Over eighteen hours already."

"And how much blood has he received?"

"A dozen liters."

"Any more on hand?"

"Perhaps six more."

"Well, you'd better get it into him. He's in shock right now."

The surgeon scurried away while Dal took another look at the micro
field. The situation was bad; the anaesthesia had already gone on too
long, and the blood chemistry record showed progressive failure.

He stepped down from the platform, trying to clear his head and decide
the right thing to do.

He had done micro-surgery before, plenty of it, and he knew the
techniques necessary to complete the job, but the thought of attempting
it chilled him. At best, he was on unfamiliar ground, with a dozen
factors that could go wrong. By now the patient was a dreadful risk for
any surgeon. If he were to step in now, and the patient died, how would
he explain not calling for help?

He stepped out to the scrub room where Tiger was waiting. "Where's
Jack?" he said.

"Went back to the ship for the rest of the surgical pack."

Dal shook his head. "I don't know what to