Monk glowered. "You're wrong," he said icily. "You've made a lousy diagnosis." "What was that feeling you described?" asked Rostov. "Remember what you told me? Like a big, black bird, flapping its wings in your chest. Didn't that mean something to you, Mr. Monk?" * * * * * The industrialist paled. "All right. Get to the point," he said quietly. "What did that gadget tell you?" "Bad news," said the doctor. "Your heart's been strained almost to bursting. It's working on will power, Mr. Monk; hardly anything else." "_Get to the point!_" Monk shouted. "That _is_ the point," Rostov said stiffly. "You have a serious heart condition. A dangerous condition. You've ignored eight years of my advice, and now your heart is showing the effects." "What can it do to me?" "Kill you," said the doctor bluntly. "Frankly, I can't even promise that the usual precautions will do any good. But we have no other choice than to take them. The human body is a miraculous affair, and even the most desperate damages sometimes can't prevent it from going on living. But I won't mince words with you, Mr. Monk. You're a direct sort of person, so I'm telling you directly. Your chances are slim." Monk sat down and put his black tie on distractedly. He sat deep in thought for a while, and then said: "How much would it cost to fix it?" "What?" "Money!" the big man cried. "How much money would it take to get me repaired?" "But it's not a matter of money--" "Don't give me that!" Monk put his jacket on with a violent motion. "I've learned better than that in my fifty years, Dr. Rostov. Money fixes everything. Everything! I could curdle your milk by telling you some of the things I've fixed with money!" The physician shrugged. "Money doesn't buy health." "Doesn't it?" The patient gave an abrupt laugh. "Money buys people, Dr. Rostov. It buys loyalty and disloyalty. It buys friends and sells enemies. All these are commodities, Doctor. I found that out--the hard way." "Mr. Monk, you don't know what I'm telling you. Your heart action is unreliable, and no amount of dollars can bring it back to normal--" The industrialist stood up. "You think the heart is incorruptible, eh?" He snorted. "Well, I think different. Someplace on earth there's a man or a method that can fix me up. It'll take money to find the answer, that's for sure. But I'll find it!" Rostov put out his hand helplessly. "You're being unreasonable, Mr. Monk. There is nothing on earth--" "_All right!_" Fletcher Monk shouted. "So maybe there's nothing on Earth!" His body trembled with his emotion. "Then I'll go to the stars, if I have to!" * * * * * Rostov started. "If you mean this gravity business--" "What's that?" Monk froze. "What's that you said?" "This gravity thing," the doctor said. "This silly story about the Mars Colony they've been spreading--"