ids?"

"Don't shout so. You'll frighten them. And stop thinking about yourself.
You know I'd be willing to undergo sterilization. But we can't inflict
it on the kids when they're still too young to decide for themselves."

"I'll find some way out. There must be someone who'd be willing to be
bought--"

"Don't talk that way," she tried to laugh. "After all, you've always
said you'd like to have the children see another planet."

Greg sat down again and covered his face with his hands. "Don't say
that, Dora. Sure, I'd like to take my family to Venus if they ever
opened it up for colonization. But that's a fine planet. Mars is hell,
and the law says I can't go with you or the kids."

"That's exactly right. The law says that we're breeding a cancer-free
race of humans on Earth by sending to Mars all the people who prove to
be susceptible."

Greg shook his head. "That plan wasn't set up just to breed out cancer
prones. It was partly to keep Earth from starvation when overpopulation
became an impossible problem. It isn't really a moral issue. Look, you
can probably cancel your passage, and we can arrange sterilization. The
kids will approve when they grow up."

Now it was Dora who held Greg close. "I don't want to leave you," she
said desperately, "but there's nothing else to do. You know the
Carstairs, and the Andresens. The same thing happened to both of those
girls. They talked it over with their husbands and decided on
sterilization, and the Andresens broke up the next year and Mrs.
Carstairs is in a mental home...."

Greg was silent for a moment. Then he looked at her.

"When do you leave?"

The children wailed again. "I won't be here next Wednesday," she arose
and walked unsteadily toward the nursery.

* * * * *

Greg drove the next morning through narrow streets and backed his car
into a parking space close to his destination. He sat for a moment,
frowning at the antiquated, dirty buildings, half-residential,
half-business. Then he left the car and walked up the half-dozen uneven
stone steps to Modern Laboratories.

Behind the small front office, Modern Laboratories contained an array
of testtubes, some sluggish guinea pigs, and dusty bottles. A man who
Greg knew must be Dr. Haskett stood in front of the bottles and looked
dubiously at him.

"My contact told me to say that I need altitude shots," Greg said. "He
also told me to say that I've heard of your success in trans