Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Amazing Stories January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
HEART
By HENRY SLESAR
Monk had three questions he lived by: Where can I find it?How much will it cost? When can you deliver? But now theysaid that what he needed wasn't for sale. "Want to bet?" Hesnorted.
ystole ... diastole ... the Cardiophone listened, hummed, andrecorded; tracing a path of perilous peaks and precipices on the whitepaper.
"Relax!" Dr. Rostov pleaded. "Please relax, Mr. Monk!"
The eyes of Fletcher Monk replied. Rostov knew their language wellenough to read the glaring messages they transmitted. Indignation ..."Don't use that commanding tone with me, Doctor!" Protest ... "I amrelaxed; completely relaxed!" Warning.... "Get me out of thiselectric chair, Rostov!"
The physician sighed and clicked the apparatus off. Swiftly, but withknowing fingers, he disengaged his patient from the wire and rubberencumbrances of the reclining seat. Fletcher Monk sat up and rubbedhis forearms, watching every movement the doctor made as he preparedto 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 andwaited until the big man had buttoned it half way down. Then hereturned to the Cardiophone for a more critical study. A fine analysiswas hardly necessary; the alarming story had been told with the firstmeasurements of the heart machine.
Money buys anything, I tell you—anything!"Cut it out," said Monk brusquely. "You've got that death's-headlook again, Rostov. If you want to say something, say it."
"You were tight as a drum," said the doctor. "That's going toinfluence my findings, you know. If you hadn't refused the narcotic—"
Fletcher Monk barked: "I won't be drugged!"
"It would have relaxed you—"
"I was as relaxed as I ever am," the other man said candidly, andRostov recognized the truth of his analysis. Monk lived in a world oftaut muscles and nerves stretched out just below the breaking point.Tenseness was his trademark; there was no more elasticity in Monk'sbody than there was in the hard cash he accumulated so readily.
"Well?" the patient jeered. "What's the verdict, you damned sawbones?Going to throw away my cigars? Going to send me on a long sea voyage?"
Rostov frowned.
"Don't look so smug!" Monk exploded. "I know you think there'ssomething wrong with me. You can't wait to bury me!"
"You're sick, Mr. Monk," said the doctor. "You're very sick."
Monk glowered. "You're wrong," he said icily. "You've made a lousydiagnosis."
"What was that feeling you described?" asked Rostov. "Remember whatyou told me? Like a big, black bird, flapping its wings in your chest.Didn't that mean something to you, Mr. Monk?"
The industrialist paled. "All right. Get to the point," he saidquietly. "What did that gadget tell you?"
"Bad news," said the doct