Mankind has always been capricious in its lawmaking, inventing such intriguingly different terms as manslaughter, justified homicide and such, as if dead wasn't dead. Though fashions in both crime and sentencing come and go, there is one crime that will always bring universal detestation. That is the crime of being a bungling doctor. I have heard tell that certain savage tribes used to slaughter the physician if his patient died, a system that is not without merit. This singleminded loathing of the butchering quack is understandable. When ill, we deliver ourselves completely into the doctor's hands. We give a complete stranger the opportunity to toy with that which we value most. If this trust is violated there is naturally a hotness of temper among the witnesses or survivors. Ordinary-citizen Vulff Sifternitz had formerly been the Highly Esteemed Doctor Sifternitz. _Hot News!!_ explained in overly lavish detail how he had mixed the life of Playboy and Surgeon until finally the knife in his twitching fingers had cut _that_ instead of _this_ and the life of a prominent politician had been shortened by a number of no doubt profitable years. We must give Vulff credit for the fact that he had made an attempt to sober up before going to work, so that it was D.T.'s not drunkenness that caused the fatal twitch. His license was removed and he must have been fined most of his savings since there were later references to his having been involved in more sordid medical affairs. Life had treated Vulff hard and dirty; he was just the man I was looking for. On my first rubber-legged trip out of my room I took the liberty of paying him a professional call. To a person of my abilities tracking down a pseudo-legal stranger in a foreign city on a far planet presents no problems. Just a matter of technique and I am rich in technique. When I hammered on the stained wooden door in the least-wholesome section of town I was ready to take the first step in my new plan. "I have some business for you, Vulff," I told the bleary-eyed stewie who opened the door. "Get the hell lost," he said and tried to close the door in my face. My carefully placed shoe prevented this and it took almost no effort at all to push in past him. "I don't do any medical work," he mumbled, looking at my bandaged arm. "Not for police stoolies I don't, so get the hell lost." "Your conversation is both dull and repetitious," I told him, because it was. "I am here to offer you a strictly legitimate business deal with value given for money received. The mere fact that it happens to be illegal should bother neither of us. Least of all you." I ignored his mumbled protests and looked into the next room. "According to information of great reliability you live here in unmarried bliss with a girl named Zina. What I have to say is not for her undoubtedly shell-like ears. Where is she?" "Out!" he shouted, "And you too, out!" He clutched a tall bottle by the neck and raised it threateningly.