Birthright

“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.”