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.
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—"
Fletcher Monk barked: "I won't be drugged!"