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Updated: May 23, 2025
"You've done micro-surgery before?" "Yes, sir." "And organ transplant work?" "Yes, sir." The Black Doctor opened a folder and peered at it over his glasses. "As a matter of fact, you spent two solid years in micro-surgical training in Hospital Philadelphia, with all sorts of glowing reports from your preceptors about what a flair you had for the work." Dal shook his head.
The electronic language translator was strapped to his chest. Five minutes later he reappeared, frost forming on his blue collar, his face white as he looked at Dal. "You'd better get down there right away," he said, "and take your micro-surgical instruments. Tiger, give me a hand with the anaesthesia tanks.
"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.
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.
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