"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!"
The physician shrugged. "Money doesn't buy health."
"Doesn't it?" The patient gave an abrupt laugh. "Money buys people, Dr. Rostov. It buys loyalty and disloyalty. It buys friends and sells enemies. All these are commodities, Doctor. I found that out—the hard way."
"Mr. Monk, you don't know what I'm telling you. Your heart action is unreliable, and no amount of dollars can bring it back to normal—"
The industrialist stood up. "You think the heart is incorruptible, eh?" He snorted. "Well, I think different. Someplace on earth there's a man or a method that can fix me up. It'll take money to find the answer, that's for sure. But I'll find it!"
Rostov put out his hand helplessly. "You're being unreasonable, Mr. Monk. There is nothing on earth—"
"All right!" Fletcher Monk shouted. "So maybe there's nothing on Earth!" His body trembled with his emotion. "Then I'll go to the stars, if I have to!"
Rostov started. "If you mean this gravity business—"
"What's that?" Monk froze. "What's that you said?"