Mike Resnick - Birthright

“I've got enough paradoxes of my own to work on,” said Darlinski. “I don't need any of yours.” “Just trying to be helpful, boss. See you later.” Darlinski went back to the patient, muttering obscenities to himself. It just didn't add up; even a virus, left unattended, would either have killed her or been partially fought off by antibodies by now. Perhaps the weirdest part of the whole insane situation was the fact that the ambassador simply refused to change, either for better or for worse.

Okay, he decided, let's look at it logically. If the Pnathian's condition remained unchanged, it must be because something in her internal or external environment was also unchanged. Since he had established, insofar as was possible, that her internal systems were all functioning normally, and since Jennings had as yet been unable to detect any microbes, bacteria, or viruses that might be harmful, he would operate on the hypothesis that the cause was either a blood clot or tumor in her brain, which he couldn't possibly cure or even find, or else that the problem lay in the external environment. And, if the external environment was the cause of her problems, the most likely place to begin changing that environment was with the atmosphere and the gravitation. He began by changing the pressure within the room to zero gravity, with no visible effect. Then, gradually, he increased it to three gravities. The breathing became slightly more labored, but there was no other reaction, and on a boneless being he didn't feel he could increase the pressure any further. He then placed a respirator over the Pnathian's breathing orifice and lowered the oxygen content to fifteen percent, then twelve percent. When he got it down to eight percent he thought the patient would surely begin to choke, but instead, he detected a noticeable twitching of one eyelid. Encouraged, he dropped it down to a four percent oxygen compound—and all hell broke loose! The Pnathian ambassador began whispering incoherently, and her tentacular appendages started thrashing wildly. Darlinski easily avoided them, strapped the trunk of her body to the table, and settled back to observe her. Her eyes were open, but seemed unable to focus, and her motions, even after ten minutes, were so disjointed as to convince him she would never in a dozen lifetimes learn how to bring food to her mouth, let alone pilot a spaceship. An idea began dawning somewhere in the back of his mind, but first he had to check out a few facts. His first act was to call Jennings.

“Tell me,” he asked the pathologist, “exactly what would happen to a human, used to breathing a nineteen percent oxygen compound, if you doubled the oxygen content on him?” “He'd probably laugh his fool head off,” said Jennings promptly.

“I know,” said Darlinski. “But is there any possibility that he might pass out instead?”

“I doubt it. Why?”

“What if you quadrupled it—got it up to seventy-six percent, or even a little bit higher?” “It's been done many times in emergency cases.” “Does it ever knock them out?”

“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.