"What silly story?" asked Monk, narrowing his eyes. "I haven't heard it. What do you mean?" Rostov regretted his words. But he knew it was too late to stop the industrialist from extracting the details from him. He made a despairing gesture and went over to his desk. From the top drawer, he withdrew a folded sheet torn from the pages of a daily newspaper that specialized in lurid articles and wild imaginings. * * * * * Monk snatched it from the doctor's hand. "Let me see that!" he said. He turned the paper over in his hand until he found the red-pencilled article the doctor had referred to. "MARS BOON TO HEART CASES, SAYS SPACE DOCTOR." Monk read the headline aloud, and then looked at Rostov. "It's a misquotation," the physician said. "Dr. Feasley never made such a bald statement. They've taken something out of context to make a sensational story--" "Let 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.