The hiss of boiling water from the copper sterilizer mingled with the rhythmic, heavy thud of distant artillery as Arthur prepared the razor-sharp field on the zinc slab.
Beside the table, Sergeant Corvo stood holding two enamel basins filled with soaked potassium alum solution. The liquid was crystal clear, cold to the touch. Then it carried a dry, puckering metal scent that made the back of the throat tighten.
“The alum is dissolved to thirty percent concentration, Arthur,” Corvo said. He set the basins down beside a row of bone curettes. “Just like you asked. But are you sure you don’t want to use general ether anesthesia? I can run to the pharmacy bunker and supply order a bottle.”
Arthur looked down at Titus. The small tortoise lay flat on the zinc, his battered limbs splayed outward, his blunt head resting quietly upon a folded pad of clean flannel.
“Chelonian breathing physiology doesn’t tolerate volatile inhalant anesthetics,” Arthur explained. His gloved fingers tested the sharpness of a tiny stainless steel bone scoop. “Their breathing is driven by gut-deep movement and limb musculature rather than a chest muscle. If I depress his central breathing centers with ether, his hypoxic drive will fail. He will slip into permanent breathing arrest within twenty minutes. Local sneaking and regional nerve blocks are our only viable option.”
