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.