"I see." It was all Dal could do to keep from shouting at the huge creature. The Moruans had no duplication of organs, such as Earthmen and certain other races had. A tumor of the lung would mean death ... but the technique of grafting a culture-grown lung segment to a portion of natural lung required enormous surgical skill, and the finest microscopic instruments that could be made in order to suture together the tiny capillary walls and air tubules. And if one lung were destroyed, a Moruan had no other to take its place. "Do you have any micro-surgical instruments at all?" "Oh, yes," the Moruan rumbled proudly. "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.