_Monk had three questions he lived by: Where can I find it?
How much will it cost? When can you deliver? But now they
said that what he needed wasn't for sale. "Want to bet?" He
snorted._
* * * * *
_Systole_ ... _diastole_ ... the Cardiophone listened, hummed, and
recorded; tracing a path of perilous peaks and precipices on the white
paper.
"Relax!" Dr. Rostov pleaded. "Please relax, Mr. Monk!"
The eyes of Fletcher Monk replied. Rostov knew their language well
enough to read the glaring messages they transmitted. Indignation ...
"_Don't use that commanding tone with me, Doctor!_" Protest ... "_I am
relaxed; completely relaxed!_" Warning.... "_Get me out of this
electric chair, Rostov!_"
The physician sighed and clicked the apparatus off. Swiftly, but with
knowing fingers, he disengaged his patient from the wire and rubber
encumbrances of the reclining seat. Fletcher Monk sat up and rubbed
his forearms, watching every movement the doctor made as he prepared
to study the results of his examination.
"You're fussing, Rostov," he said coldly. "My shirt."
"In a moment."
"_Now,_" said Monk impatiently.
The physician shook his head sadly. He handed Monk his shirt and
waited until the big man had buttoned it half way down. Then he
returned to the Cardiophone for a more critical study. A fine analysis
was hardly necessary; the alarming story had been told with the first
measurements of the heart machine.
[Illustration: Money buys anything, I tell you--anything!]
"Cut it out," said Monk brusquely. "You've got that death's-head
look again, Rostov. If you want to say something, say it."
"You were tight as a drum," said the doctor. "That's going to
influence my findings, you know. If you hadn't refused the narcotic--"