Mankind's future, no larger than a baby's thumbnail, against the backdrop of my sweaty palm, and me, overwhelmed with sweet, giddy enormity. I deposited the chip in a tray to be removed for cleaning and peeled off my brain-stained surgical gloves. The irony of the situation brought on an attack of intoxicating melancholy: that the one operation that attested to my professional accomplishment could be carried out with such crude simplicity.rnEnsconced in the Hospital of Space Medicine of the Third Aeronautical Institute three hundred meters beneath Old Tokyo Bay, and queasy from prolonged exposure to artificial lighting, I had just 'operated' on the charred remains of Flight Lieutenant Kit Hancock. No anaesthetic required: drill window in back of skull, exploratory surface probe with surgical spade, followed by perfunctory, finer digging about with smaller instrument. The third step was not necessary to root out the chip, but would keep the powers-that-be satisfied I was not about to hack the chip to pieces along with the story of what came to pass on board the Cranberry.rnJob completed, I passed the chip to an assistant. From here it would be spirited away to a Sense Five lab for data mining and analysis. This would yield sensory data on everything Hancock experienced on Mars, and shed light on at least five human deaths.
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