"Youtold me that yourself."
"At least there's a chance," the doctor argued. "A slim one, surely.But you're talking about almost certain death!"
"How do you know?" said Monk contemptuously. "You've never hadanything to do with space medicine. You're what they call agroundworm, Doc. Just like me."
"You'll never even get aboard a spaceship. There's a rigid physicalexamination required. You couldn't pass it in a million years! It'ssuicide to think of it."
* * * * *
Monk paced the floor. "But if I did pass it--"
"Impossible!"
"But if I _did_," Monk insisted. "Would my chances for living bebetter on Mars?"
"I suppose so. Your heart wouldn't have to work nearly so hard. You'dweigh less than ninety pounds...."
"Then it's worth a try, isn't it?" He grasped the physician by theshoulders and shook him. "Isn't it?" he shouted.
"Mr. Monk, I can't let you even consider it!"
"_You_ can't?" Monk looked at him threateningly. "Are you dictating myaffairs now, Doctor? Are you forgetting who I am?"
"The Mars Colony is a working organization," the doctor said,desperately. "The life there is hard, rugged--"
"_Hard?_" Monk roared. "Hardness and Monk are synonymous words, DoctorRostov. Don't you read the papers? Don't you know what they call me?The Iron Millionaire!" He laughed. "And there's something else you'renot aware of. I own a lot of this country. But I also own a good pieceof the Mars Colony. Just let 'em try and stop me!"
Rostov threw his hands in the air. "You're completely off balance, Mr.Monk. What you're thinking about is impossible in a dozen differentways. But I'm not going to worry about it. You'll never get near aspace vessel--"
"That remains to be seen," said Monk.
"The best thing for you," the doctor continued, "is to start slowingdown--right now, today. And the first project we have to work on isthe loss of some thirty or forty pounds. You're much too heavy forthat heart of yours."
Monk didn't appear to be listening. Thoughtfully, he reached insidehis coat and brought out a long black cigar. He bit off the end andspat it out onto the polished floor of the examining room.
"You'll have to lose those, too," the doctor cautioned. "Cigars areout."
Fletcher Monk jammed the cigar between his teeth. He looked at thedoctor and smiled grimly.
"O.K., Doc," he said. "I'm going to follow your advice. And the firstthing I'm going to arrange is the loss of some weight." He lit thecigar and puffed heavily. "About a hundred and thirty pounds," hesaid.
Monk put his hat on his head and walked out. He felt better already.
* * * * *
Monk found his informant in the person of a Spacelane employee namedHorner. Garcia, the converted hood that now "assisted" Monk in hispersonal affairs, brought the Spacelane man into the industrialist'soffice and gestured him into a chair.
"All right," said Monk. "Garcia's told you what I want. Now let's go."He picked up a paper from his desk, and began to read off the list oftypewritten names.
"Houston," he said.
"No good," said Horner. "He's the dispatch officer. Crusty old guy.Spent eleven years in space, and he's plenty mean."
"I don't care about his disposition," said Monk testily. "Can he bebought?"
Horner shook his head. "I doubt it."
"All right, then." Monk rattled the paper. "How about Roth?"
"Uh-uh. He's the Chief Medical Officer. Very Army. He helped draft theoriginal physical standards for space flight."
"Davis!" said Monk.
"Well ..." Horner looked pensive. "He doesn't mind a fast buck now andthen. But he's only a Supplies Officer. He couldn't do anything aboutsmuggling you aboard."
"Christy."
"Don't know much about Christy. He's a pilot, and prettyclose-mouthed. Spends most of his time between trips in the bosom ofhis family, so to speak. Which is maybe understandable, because he'sgot a wife that is absolutely--"
"Skip that junk," said Garcia toughly. "The boss wants facts."
"Keep out of this, you," said Monk. He smiled humorlessly at Horner."What about Christy's wife?"
"Well, she's--I mean, she's a looker, understand? A real beauty. Onlyfrom what I heard around the base, she's a groundworm's delight, ifyou know what I mean--"
"I don't know what you mean," said Monk patiently.
"Well, with her husband away six months out of every year, and aswell-lookin' doll like that ... Figure it out for yourself."
Monk grunted. "I'll keep it in mind," he said. "Now how about thisfellow Forsch?"
"Maybe there's something there," said Horner. "He's a doctor, too.Handles most of the routine physicals. But I heard a rumor about somepretty unethical practices he was mixed up in before he took this job.There may be nothing to it, but if you could look into it--"
"I will," said Monk abruptly. He handed the paper over to theSpacelane employee. "Anybody else here you want to tell me about?"
Horner looked over the list.
"That's about it, I guess," he said. "Nobody here can do you any good.But you look into this guy Forsch. He may be your boy."
Monk smiled tightly.
"Pay him," he said to Garcia.
* * * * *
When the detectives handed Fletcher Monk the completed report on theactivities of Diana Christy, he read it through thoroughly, savoringeach juicy word between puffs of his cigar. The report was excellentlyconstructed. It was painstaking in its detail. It named names, places,times, events, and even recorded certain revealing conversations. Itgave the background of each of Mrs. Christy's lovers, even down totheir income and place of birth.
It was a marvelous document, in Monk's estimation, and not the firstof its kind he had had prepared. A powerful piece of persuasion.
With great satisfaction, he replaced the volume in an envelope andbuzzed for Garcia. His instructions to the assistant were crisp anddefinite. The assignment was the kind that Garcia both understood andrelished. He took the report from Monk's hands and went on his way tocall on the lady in question.
Bill Christy, recently returned from a Mars flight, was both amazedand disturbed by the strange request his beautiful young wife made ofhim. It was awful--illegal--even criminal! To arrange for thecertification of a man with a weak heart; to virtually counterfeitthe medical records of the Spacelane Company!
But he _was_ her uncle, Diana Christy pleaded. The only relative shehad in the world; the only one she loved outside of Christy himself.He _must_ help her; he must give her poor sick uncle a chance to makea new life for himself in the Mars Colony.
He wouldn't do it; he couldn't! But she cried, with great wet tearsstreaming down the smooth planes of her face. Didn't he love her?Wasn't this one little favor worth doing for the sake of herhappiness? No one would be hurt by it. The motives were altruistic,after all.
But the risk--
There wasn't any risk, she assured him. Her uncle was wealthy; verywealthy. He could supply all the money Bill would need. If what peoplesaid about Dr. Forsch was true, he might be approached. That wouldmake it simple, wouldn't it? It was such a small thing he coulddo--but how she would appreciate it! How she would love him for it!
And of course, finally, with her cool arms about his neck and her softcheek pressed against his, he replied:
"I'll do it."
* * * * *
Monk handed his luggage to the official at the Spacelane Flight Desk.But he kept the brown leather bag in his hand, and no amount ofargument could separate him from it. It was easy to understand hisdevotion to this particular piece of personal property; it containedsome four million dollars in cash.
"I may not be the youngest man on Mars," he smiled to himself as hewalked onto the loading platform. "But I'll be the richest!"
Aboard the ship, the pilot Bill Christy gave him a worried glance andassisted him into the contour chair. Christy
showed concern.
"You feel okay, Mr. Wheeler?" he asked. Monk smiled back, but not inanswer to the question. He enjoyed the pseudonym, because it was thename of an old competitor, long-since buried beneath Monk's superiortalents in the business of making money.
"Try and relax as much as you can," said Christy. "We'll give