"It would have relaxed you--"
"I was as relaxed as I ever am," the other man said candidly, and
Rostov recognized the truth of his analysis. Monk lived in a world of
taut muscles and nerves stretched out just below the breaking point.
Tenseness was his trademark; there was no more elasticity in Monk's
body than there was in the hard cash he accumulated so readily.
"Well?" the patient jeered. "What's the verdict, you damned sawbones?
Going to throw away my cigars? Going to send me on a long sea voyage?"
Rostov frowned.
"Don't look so smug!" Monk exploded. "I know you think there's
something wrong with me. You can't wait to bury me!"
"You're sick, Mr. Monk," said the doctor. "You're very sick."
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!"