"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 anything about smuggling you aboard."
"Christy."