pretty close-mouthed. Spends most of his time between trips in the bosom of his family, so to speak. Which is maybe understandable, because he's got a wife that is absolutely—"

"Skip that junk," said Garcia toughly. "The boss wants facts."

"Keep out of this, you," said Monk. He smiled humorlessly at Horner. "What about Christy's wife?"

"Well, she's—I mean, she's a looker, understand? A real beauty. Only from what I heard around the base, she's a groundworm's delight, if you know what I mean—"

"I don't know what you mean," said Monk patiently.

"Well, with her husband away six months out of every year, and a swell-lookin' doll like that ... Figure it out for yourself."

Monk grunted. "I'll keep it in mind," he said. "Now how about this fellow Forsch?"

"Maybe there's something there," said Horner. "He's a doctor, too. Handles most of the routine physicals. But I heard a rumor about some pretty unethical practices he was mixed up in before he took this job. There may be nothing to it, but if you could look into it—"

"I will," said Monk abruptly. He handed the paper over to the Spacelane employee. "Anybody else here you want to tell me about?"

Horner looked over the list.

"That's about it, I guess," he said. "Nobody here can do you any good. But you look into this guy Forsch. He may be your boy."

Monk smiled tightly.

"Pay him," he said to Garcia.

When the detectives handed Fletcher Monk the completed report on the activities of Diana Christy, he read it through thoroughly, savoring each juicy word between puffs of his cigar. The report was excellently constructed. It was painstaking in its detail. It named names, places, times, events, and even recorded certain revealing conversations. It gave the background of each of Mrs. Christy's lovers, even down to their income and place of birth.

It was a marvelous document, in Monk's estimation, and not the first of its kind he had had prepared. A powerful piece of persuasion.

With great satisfaction, he replaced the volume in an envelope and buzzed for Garcia. His instructions to the assistant were crisp and definite. The assignment was the kind that Garcia both understood and relished. He took the report from Monk's hands and went on his way to call on the lady in question.

Bill Christy, recently returned from a Mars flight, was both amazed and disturbed by the strange request his beautiful young wife made of him. It was awful—illegal—even criminal! To arrange for the certification of a man with a weak heart; to virtually counterfeit the medical records of the Spacelane Company!

But he was her uncle, Diana Christy pleaded. The only relative she had in the world; the only one she loved outside of Christy himself. He must help her; he must give her poor sick uncle a chance to make a new life for himself in the Mars Colony.

He wouldn't do it; he couldn't! But she cried, with great wet tears streaming down the smooth planes of her face. Didn't he love her? Wasn't this one little favor worth doing for the sake of her happiness? No one would be hurt by it. The motives were altruistic, after all.

But the risk—

There wasn't any risk, she assured him. Her uncle was wealthy; very wealthy. He could supply all the money Bill would need. If what people said about Dr. Forsch was true, he might be approached. That would make it simple, wouldn't it? It was such a small thing he could do—but how she would appreciate it! How she would love him for it!

And of course, finally, with her cool arms about his neck and her soft cheek pressed against his, he replied:

"I'll do it."

Monk handed his luggage to the official at the Spacelane Flight Desk. But he kept the brown leather bag in his hand, and no amount of argument could separate him from it. It was easy to understand his devotion to this particular piece of personal property; it contained some four million dollars in cash.