After receiving the first ether anesthesia treatment in this world's history, Corwin was handed over to the Church—or, more precisely, to the Bishop for judgment.
Of course, in return, the doctor made a request of his visitors as a devout and distinguished guest who was about to bring the Church a great deal of income. He asked them to show leniency toward the young man who'd gone astray, and at the very least, spare him any extrajudicial punishment—so that this medically significant achievement wouldn't be damaged.
Before leaving, Kraft warmly shook Corwin's still-intact left hand and confirmed once more, "Mr. Corwin, are you sure that's your real name? Do you have a surname, a full name, or another name you'd rather be called?"
"No, that's it. I'm just Corwin. Really." He still looked a little shaken. From the victim's perspective, it probably felt like this: he closed his eyes and opened them again, and his hand was gone; he closed them and opened them again, and his hand had been put back.
"I'm sure you won't regret it. May the Heavenly Father bless you, Mr. Corwin."
Though he would have liked to observe Corwin for a few more days, this outstanding professional in the business of redistributing property had more important matters to attend to. For example, helping the Bishop's men track down the fellow who'd tried to use underhanded tactics, and seeing whether they could pad the Church's financial report for the second half of the year.
The Church could tolerate those rude sailors entering its Church, turn a blind eye to the existence of "drunken priests," and even ignore the harbor's depraved red-and-green district. But when it came to reaching into its own backyard and meddling with profits delivered right to its door, it wouldn't give up a