“Once in a while. Rarely, though. What are you getting at?” “One final question and I'll tell you.” “Ask away,” said Jennings.
“What if you stuck a man into a ninety percent oxygen atmosphere” “No problem,” came the quick reply.
“You didn't let me finish,” said Darlinski. “What if you put him there and left him there for a week?” “It's never been done to my knowledge. It'd probably burn out the brain and the lungs, in that order.... Wait a minute! Are you trying to tell me that...” “...That our ambassador breathes a four percent oxygen compound, or less, and that she's been living in our equivalent of a ninety percent oxygen tent since she arrived. At first it was probably invigorating, perhaps even intoxicating. But ultimately it hit her, hard, and she's been in a state of collapse ever since.” “Then you've solved it!” exclaimed Jennings. “Pretty simple at that, wasn't it?” “I haven't solved it at all,” said Darlinski. “I'd wager that she hasn't got enough brainpower left to rattle around in a thimble. Totally uncoordinated, eyes can't focus, unaware of surroundings, drooling slightly out of her two ingestion orifices. It's my opinion that right now she ranks considerably lower than a potted plant on whatever scale they use to measure intelligence. She may be cured, but she's as nonfunctional as a rock.”
“If it'll make you feel any better, she was probably like that within an hour of her collapse,” said Jennings.
“Makes me feel great,” said Darlinski, cutting the communication. The idea was rounding out, but he still had to check with Hammett. He explained the entire situation to him, then waited while Hammett checked with the government. “Nice job,” said Hammett an hour later, “but the Pnathians aren't buying. First, they think we're lying to them, and second, they think that if we're telling the truth we're responsible for what happened to her. So we came close, but no cigar. The truce ends in two days, time, so if you can't come up with a way to cure a mental vegetable by then...” His voice trailed off. “Let me ask you one question,” said Darlinski.
“Shoot.”
“How do you know that the ambassador is a woman?” “The Pnathians—or, to be more accurate, the Pnathian spokesman—told us so.” “Told you it was a female?”
“Yes.”
“What were the exact words?”
“I'm not quite sure. A general expression of regret that Leonora had just recently reached that point of physical maturity where she could have offspring.” “Is that an exact, word-for-word translation?” “Not quite. But it's as close as our translators could come with a race that doesn't speak Galactic.” “Our heterosexual male and female translators,” said Darlinski. “What are you getting at?” asked Hammett “Don't ask,” said Darlinski. “Now, let me get one fact straight in my mind: Whether the ambassador lives as a vegetable or dies tomorrow makes no difference in the Pnathians’ stated plans, correct?” “Correct.”
“All right. I've got a favor to ask of you.” “I'll do what I can,” said Hammett.
“I want you to cordon off Surgery Room 607 and the adjacent recovery room. Then I want you to set up the capabilities for an atmosphere of three and a half percent oxygen, ninety-five percent nitrogen, and one and a half percent inert elements in both rooms. Standard pressure. And finally, post a guard and see that no one except Jennings is allowed in without my express permission.” “Give me two hours and it'll be done,” said Hammett. “But—” “No questions. Oh yes, I'll want one other thing, too. Give me a vat, one cubic yard, of the most highly concentrated nitric acid we have, and place some opaque covering over it.” “Acid?”
“Right. And don't forget the covering. I'll be down in surgery in two hours.” True to his word, Hammett had the rooms in order when Darlinski and a nurse wheeled the Pnathian in at the appointed hour. Jennings was waiting for them, a curious expression on his face. “You know,” he said, “I've been wracking my mind trying to figure out what kind of operation you plan to perform. I keep coming up with the same crazy answer.”
“Far from being a crazy answer,” said Darlinski “I've got a sneaky suspicion it's the only sane one. You
can act as my anesthetist.”
“Will you need one?”
“Shortly. Nurse: you, Jennings and I will now don our oxygen masks.” This done, he ordered the atmosphere lowered to three and a half percent oxygen. “Okay, Jennings, set the respirator up to thirty-five percent and knock her out.”
Jennings placed the nozzle over the Pnathian's breathing orifice, and the ambassador lost consciousness almost immediately.
“Is the acid vat here?” asked Darlinski. He looked around until he found it. “All right, nurse. We will now prepare for amputation.”
“What are you amputating, sir?” asked the nurse. “The head,” said Darlinski.
“I knew it!” said Jennings. “You've got to be out of your mind!'’ “What've we got to lose?” asked Darlinski, unmindful of the nurse's horrified reaction. “Mindless or dead, the war starts; this is the only way to stop it.” And, so saying, he made an incision midway on the long stalk that passed for a Pnathian neck. His hands moved quickly, expertly, until the neck was all but severed. “Nurse,” he said, looking up for an instant, “it will doubtless bother you no end, but I don't want this sutured or closed in any way. We will apply a tourniquet for about ninety seconds, but it must then be removed.”
The nurse, pale and horrified, nodded weakly. “Jennings, you know what to do with the head?'’ “The vat?”
Darlinski nodded. “If I'm right, it's going to be screaming bloody murder anyway, so we'll destroy it as quickly as possible.”
“Wouldn't the incinerator have been more humane?” “Doubtless. However, I don't relish taking a babbling, decapitated head down five levels and through crowded corridors to the incinerator. Do you?” “I see your point.” Jennings grinned. He grunted as the head rolled off the Pnathian's body, and, averting his eyes as best he could, he quickly took it to the opaque vat and placed it inside. When he got back to the table he found Darlinski removing the tourniquet. No blood poured forth. “It probably doesn't need it, despite the absence of its mouth, but let's open up the neck a bit and insert
a breathing tube. Then you'd better run up to Pathology and figure out what kind of solution we can give
it intravenously until it can eat for itself, though with all that subcutaneous fat I doubt that it'll be necessary.” Jennings left, and Darlinski turned to the nurse. “Until I know the outcome of all this, I'm afraid you're going to be confined to quarters. You are not to discuss this with anyone except Mr. Hammett, Dr. Jennings, or myself. Is that clear?” The nurse nodded.
“Fine. Stick around a bit longer, until we can hunt up a replacement. And call Hammett and tell him to get his tail down here on the double.”
It took Hammett exactly four minutes to arrive, at which time Darlinski explained the operation to him. “You see,” he began, “the whole problem was that the ambassador is very definitelynot a female. That threw me for a while, but I couldn't give it my full attention until I figured out what had caused its problem in the first place. But there were so many hints I should have seen it even sooner: the fact that its tissue kept growing, even when it wasn't cultured; the fact that we couldn't find any sexual apparatus; the fact that there were no outlets for spores. So of course, what could it be but an entity that is capable of reproduction by fission, and hence of regeneration? I should have guessed something like that the first day, when only one of my scrapings drew any blood at all, and that coagulated in just two or three seconds.”