ctor
Rostov. 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're
not aware of. I own a lot of this country. But I also own a good piece
of 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 different
ways. But I'm not going to worry about it. You'll never get near a
space vessel--"

"That remains to be seen," said Monk.

"The best thing for you," the doctor continued, "is to start slowing
down--right now, today. And the first project we have to work on is
the loss of some thirty or forty pounds. You're much too heavy for
that heart of yours."

Monk didn't appear to be listening. Thoughtfully, he reached inside
his coat and brought out a long black cigar. He bit off the end and
spat it out onto the polished floor of the examining room.

"You'll have to lose those, too," the doctor cautioned. "Cigars are
out."

Fletcher Monk jammed the cigar between his teeth. He looked at the
doctor and smiled grimly.

"O.K., Doc," he said. "I'm going to follow your advice. And the first
thing I'm going to arrange is the loss of some weight." He lit the
cigar and puffed heavily. "About a hundred and thirty pounds," he
said.

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 named
Horner. Garcia, the converted hood that now "assisted" Monk in his
personal affairs, brought the Spacelane man into the industrialist's
office 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 of
typewritten 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 be
bought?"

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 the
original physical standards for space flight."

"Davis!" said Monk.

"Well ..." Horner looked pensive. "He doesn't mind a fast buck now and
then. But he's only a Supplies Officer. He couldn't do an