"I think," Black Doctor Hugo Tanner said ominously, "that an explanation
is in order. I would now like to hear it. And believe me, gentlemen, it
had better be a very sensible explanation, too."

The pathologist was sitting in the control room of the _Lancet_, his
glasses slightly askew on his florid face. He had climbed through the
entrance lock ten minutes before, shaking snow off his cloak and
wheezing like a boiler about to explode; now he faced the patrol ship's
crew like a small but ominous black thundercloud. Across the room, Jack
Alvarez was staring through the viewscreen at the blizzard howling
across the landing field below, a small satisfied smile on his face,
while Tiger sulked with his hands jammed into his trousers. Dal sat by
himself feeling very much alone, with Fuzzy peering discreetly out of
his jacket pocket.

He knew the Black Doctor was speaking to him, but he didn't try to
reply. He had known from the moment the surgeon came out of the
operating room that he was in trouble. It was just a matter of time
before he would have to answer for his decision here, and it was even
something of a relief that the moment came sooner rather than later.

And the more Dal considered his position, the more indefensible it
appeared. Time after time he had thought of Dr. Arnquist's words about
judgment and skill. Without one the other was of little value to a
doctor, and whatever his skill as a surgeon might have been in the
Moruan operating room, he now realized that his judgment had been poor.
He had allowed himself to panic at a critical moment, and had failed to
see how far the surgery had really progressed. By deciding to wait for
help to arrive instead of taking over at once, he had placed the patient
in even greater jeopardy than before. In looking back, Dal could see