Alan E. Nourse Super Pack. Alan E. Nourse

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      “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 do. I think we should get him to a hospital ship.”

      “Is it more than you can handle?” Tiger said.

      “I could probably do it all right—but I could lose him, too.”

      A frown creased Tiger’s face. “Dal, it would take six hours for a hospital ship to get here.”

      “I know that. But on the other hand....” Dal spread his hands. He felt Fuzzy crouching in a tight frightened lump in his pocket. He thought again of the delicate, painstaking microscopic work that remained to be done to bring the new section of lung into position to function, and he shook his head. “Look, these creatures hibernate,” he said. “If we could get him cooled down enough, we could lighten the anaesthesia and maintain him as is, indefinitely.”

      “This is up to you,” Tiger said. “I don’t know anything about surgery. If you think we should just hold tight, that’s what we’ll do.”

      “All right. I think we’d better. Have them notify Jack to signal for a hospital ship. We’ll just try to stick it out.”

      Tiger left to pass the word, and Dal went back into the operating room. Suddenly he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. There would be Three-star Surgeons on a Hospital Ship to handle this; it seemed an enormous relief to have the task out of his hands. Yet something was wriggling uncomfortably in the back of his mind, a quiet little voice saying this isn’t right, you should be doing this yourself right now instead of wasting precious time....

      He thrust the thought away angrily and ordered the Moruan physicians to bring in ice packs to cool the patient’s huge hulk down to hibernation temperatures. “We’re going to send for help,” Dal told the Moruan surgeon who had met them at the ship. “This man needs specialized care, and we’d be taking too much chance to try to do it this way.”

      “You mean you’re sending for a hospital ship?”

      “That’s right,” Dal said.

      This news seemed to upset the Moruans enormously. They began growling among themselves, moving back from the operating table.

      “Then you can’t save him?” the operating surgeon said.

      “I think he can be saved, certainly!”

      “But we thought you could just step in—”

      “I could, but that would be taking chances that we don’t need to take. We can maintain him until the hospital ship arrives.”

      The Moruans continued to growl ominously, but Dal brushed past them, checking the vital signs of the patient as his body temperature slowly dropped. Tiger had taken over the anaesthesia, keeping the patient under as light a dosage of medication as was possible.

      “What’s eating them?” he asked Dal quietly.

      “They don’t want a hospital ship here very much,” Dal said. “Afraid they’ll look like fools all over the Confederation if the word gets out. But that’s their worry. Ours is to keep this bruiser alive until the ship gets here.”

      They settled back to wait.

      It was an agonizing time for Dal. Even Fuzzy didn’t seem to be much comfort. The patient was clearly not doing well, even with the low body temperatures Dal had induced. His blood pressure was sagging, and at one time Tiger sat up sharply, staring at his anaesthesia dials and frowning in alarm as the nervous-system reactions flagged. The Moruan physicians hovered about, increasingly uneasy as they saw the doctors from Hospital Earth waiting and doing nothing. One of them, unable to control himself any longer, tore off his sterile gown and stalked angrily out of the operating suite.

      A dozen times Dal was on the verge of stepping in. It was beginning to look now like a race with time, and precious minutes were passing by. He cursed himself inwardly for not taking the bit in his teeth at the beginning and going ahead the best he could; it had been a mistake in judgment to wait. Now, as minutes passed into hours it looked more and more like a mistake that was going to cost the life of a patient.

      Then there was a murmur of excitement outside the operating room, and word came in that another ship had been sighted making landing maneuvers. Dal clenched his fists, praying that the patient would last until the hospital ship crew arrived.

      But the ship that was landing was not a hospital ship. Someone turned on a TV scanner and picked up the image of a small ship hardly larger than a patrol ship, with just two passengers stepping down the ladder to the ground. Then the camera went close-up. Dal saw the faces of the two men, and his heart sank.

      One was a Four-star Surgeon, resplendent in flowing red cape and glistening silver insignia. Dal did not recognize the man, but the four stars meant that he was a top-ranking physician in the Red Service of Surgery.

      The other passenger, gathering his black cloak and hood around him as he faced the blistering wind on the landing field, was Black Doctor Hugo Tanner.

      *

      Moments after the Four-star Surgeon arrived at the hospital, he was fully and unmistakably in command of the situation. He gave Dal an icy stare, then turned to the Moruan operating surgeon, whom he seemed to know very well. After a short barrage of questions and answers, he scrubbed and gowned, and stalked past Dal to the crude Moruan micro-surgical control table.

      It took him exactly fifteen seconds to scan the entire operating field through the viewer, discussing the anatomy as the Moruan surgeon watched on a connecting screen. Then, without hesitation, he began manipulating the micro-instruments. Once or twice he murmured something to Tiger at the anaesthesia controls, and occasionally he nodded reassurance to the Moruan surgeon. He did not even invite Dal to observe.

      Ten minutes later he rose from the control table and threw the switch to stop the heart-lung machine. The patient took a gasping breath on his own, then another and another. The Four-star Surgeon stripped off his gown and gloves with a flourish. “It will be all right,” he said to the Moruan physician. “An excellent job, Doctor, excellent!” he said. “Your technique was flawless, except for the tiny matter you have just observed.”

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