et me see for myself," snapped Monk.

He began to read. "... 'Space Medicine Association ... Dr. Samuel
Feasley, renowned' ... here it is!... 'the effects of Earth's
gravitational pull on the body versus the relatively light gravitation
encountered by the members of the Martian Colony ... two-fifths the
pull of Earth ... interesting speculation on the heart action...!'" He
crushed the paper in his hands. "By God!" he cried. "Here's my answer,
you gloomy old fool!"

"No, no!" said Rostov hurriedly. "You don't know what you're saying--"

Fletcher Monk laughed loudly. "I always know what I'm saying, Doctor
Rostov. Here it is in black and white! Why should I die on Earth--when
I can live on Mars?"

"But it's impossible! There are so many problems--"

"Money solves problems!"

"Not this one!" said the doctor heatedly. "Not the problem of
acceleration! You'll never reach Mars alive!"

Monk paused. "What do you mean?" he blinked.

"The acceleration will kill you!" Rostov said in a shaking voice.
"Three G's are enough to burst that sick heart of yours. And the
acceleration reaches a gravity of _nine_ at one point. You'd never
make it!"

"I'll never make it _here_," said Monk, biting out the words. "You
told me that yourself."

"At least there's a chance," the doctor argued. "A slim one, surely.
But you're talking about almost certain death!"

"How do you know?" said Monk contemptuously. "You've never had
anything to do with space medicine. You're what they call a
groundworm, Doc. Just like me."

"You'll never even get aboard a spaceship. There's a rigid physical
examination required. You couldn't pass it in a million years! It's
suicide to think of it."

* * * * *

Monk paced the floor. "But if I did pass it--"

"Impossible!"

"But if I _did_," Monk insisted. "Would my chances for living be
better on Mars?"

"I suppose so. Your heart wouldn't have to work nearly so hard. You'd
weigh less than ninety pounds...."

"Then it's worth a try, isn't it?" He grasped the physician by the
shoulders and shook him. "Isn't it?" he shouted.

"Mr. Monk, I can't let you even consider it!"

"_You_ can't?" Monk looked at him threateningly. "Are you dictating my
affairs now, Doctor? Are you forgetting who I am?"

"The Mars Colony is a working organization," the doctor said,
desperately. "The life there is hard, rugged--"

"_Hard?_" Monk roared. "Hardness and Monk are synonymous words, Do