Alan E. Nourse Super Pack. Alan E. Nourse

was in sight.

      He wanted to be a Star Surgeon more than anything else. It was the one thing that he had wanted and worked for since the cruel days when the plague had swept his homeland, destroying his mother and leaving his father an ailing cripple. And since his assignment aboard the Lancet, one thought had filled his mind: to turn in the scarlet collar and cuff in return for the cape and silver star of the full-fledged physician in the Red Service of Surgery.

      Always before there had been the half-conscious dread that something would happen, that in the end, after all the work, the silver star would still remain just out of reach, that somehow he would never quite get it.

      But now there could be no question. Even Black Doctor Tanner could not deny a new contract. The crew of the Lancet would be called back to Hospital Earth for a full report on the newly contacted race, and their days as probationary doctors in the General Practice patrol would be over.

      After they had slept themselves out, the doctors prepared the ship for launching, and made their farewells to the Bruckian spokesman.

      “When the contract is ratified,” Jack said, “a survey ship will come here. They will have all of the information that we have gathered, and they will spend many months gathering more. Tell them everything they want to know. Don’t conceal anything, because once they have completed their survey, any General Practice Patrol ship in the galaxy will be able to answer a call for help and have the information they need to serve you.”

      They delayed launching hour by hour waiting for a response from Hospital Earth, but the radio was silent. They thought of a dozen reasons why the message might have been delayed, but the radio silence continued. Finally they strapped down and lifted the ship from the planet, still waiting for a response.

      When it finally came, there was no message of congratulations, nor even any acknowledgment of the new contract. Instead, there was only a terse message:

      PROCEED TO REFERENCE POINT 43621 SECTION XIX AND STAND BY FOR INSPECTION PARTY

      Tiger took the message and read it in silence, then handed it to Dal.

      “What do they say?” Jack said.

      “Read it,” Dal said. “They don’t mention the contract, just an inspection party.”

      “Inspection party! Is that the best they can do for us?”

      “They don’t sound too enthusiastic,” Tiger said. “At least you’d think they could acknowledge receipt of our report.”

      “It’s probably just part of the routine,” Dal said. “Maybe they want to confirm our reports from our own records before they commit themselves.”

      But he knew that he was only whistling in the dark. The moment he saw the terse message, he knew something had gone wrong with the contract. There would be no notes of congratulation, no returning in triumph and honor to Hospital Earth.

      Whatever the reason for the inspection party, Dal felt certain who the inspector was going to be.

      It had been exciting to dream, but the scarlet cape and the silver star were still a long way out of reach.

      The Showdown

      It was hours later when their ship reached the contact point co-ordinates. There had been little talk during the transit; each of them knew already what the other was thinking, and there wasn’t much to be said. The message had said it for them.

      Dal’s worst fears were realized when the inspection ship appeared, converting from Koenig drive within a few miles of the Lancet. He had seen the ship before—a sleek, handsomely outfitted patrol class ship with the insignia of the Black Service of Pathology emblazoned on its hull, the private ship of a Four-star Black Doctor.

      But none of them anticipated the action taken by the inspection ship as it drew within lifeboat range of the Lancet.

      A scooter shot away from its storage rack on the black ship, and a crew of black-garbed technicians piled into the Lancet’s entrance lock, dressed in the special decontamination suits worn when a ship was returning from a plague spot into uninfected territory.

      “What is this?” Tiger demanded as the technicians started unloading decontamination gear into the lock. “What are you doing with that stuff?”

      The squad leader looked at him sourly. “You’re in quarantine, Doc,” he said. “Class I, all precautions, contact with unidentified pestilence. If you don’t like it, argue with the Black Doctor, I’ve just got a job to do.”

      He started shouting orders to his men, and they scattered throughout the ship, with blowers and disinfectants, driving antiseptic sprays into every crack and cranny of the ship’s interior, scouring the hull outside in the rigid pattern prescribed for plague ships. They herded the doctors into the decontamination lock, stripped them of their clothes, scrubbed them down and tossed them special sterilized fatigues to wear with masks and gloves.

      “This is idiotic,” Jack protested. “We aren’t carrying any dangerous organisms!”

      The squad leader shrugged indifferently. “Tell it to the Black Doctor, not me. All I know is that this ship is under quarantine until it’s officially released, and from what I hear, it’s not going to be released for quite some time.”

      At last the job was done, and the scooter departed back to the inspection ship. A few moments later they saw it returning, this time carrying just three men. In addition to the pilot and one technician, there was a single passenger: a portly figure dressed in a black robe, horn-rimmed glasses and cowl.

      The scooter grappled the Lancet’s side, and Black Doctor Hugo Tanner climbed wheezing into the entrance lock, followed by the technician. He stopped halfway into the lock to get his breath, and paused again as the lock swung closed behind him. Dal was shocked at the physical change in the man in the few short weeks since he had seen him last. The Black Doctor’s face was gray; every effort of movement brought on paroxysms of coughing. He looked sick, and he looked tired, yet his jaw was still set in angry determination.

      The doctors stood at attention as he stepped into the control room, hardly able to conceal their surprise at seeing him. “Well?” the Black Doctor snapped at them. “What’s the trouble with you? You act like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

      “We—we’d heard that you were in the hospital, sir.”

      “Did you, now!” the Black Doctor snorted. “Hospital! Bah! I had to tell the press something to get the hounds off me for a while. These young puppies seem to think that a Black Doctor can just walk away from his duties any time he chooses to undergo their fancy surgical procedures. And you know who’s been screaming the loudest to get their hands on me. The Red Service of Surgery, that’s who!”

      The Black Doctor glared at Dal Timgar. “Well, I dare say the Red Doctors will have their chance at me, all in good time. But first there are certain things which must be taken care of.” He looked up at the attendant. “You’re quite certain that the ship has been decontaminated?”

      The attendant nodded. “Yes, sir.”

      “And the crewmen?”

      “It’s safe to talk to them, sir, as long as you avoid physical contact.”

      The Black Doctor grunted and wheezed and settled himself down in a seat. “All right now, gentlemen,” he said to the three, “let’s have your story of this affair in the Brucker system, right from the start.”

      “But we sent in a full report,” Tiger said.

      “I’m aware of that, you idiot. I have waded through your report, all thirty-five pages of it, and I only wish you hadn’t been so long-winded. Now I want to hear what happened directly from you. Well?”

      The three doctors looked at each other. Then Jack began the story, starting with the first hesitant “greeting” that had come through to