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. "I may not be the youngest man on Mars," he smiled to himself as he walked onto the loading platform. "But I'll be the richest!" Aboard the ship, the pilot Bill Christy gave him a worried glance and assisted him into the contour chair. Christy showed concern. "You feel okay, Mr. Wheeler?" he asked. Monk smiled back, but not in answer to the question. He enjoyed the pseudonym, because it was the name of an old competitor, long-since buried beneath Monk's superior talents in the business of making money. "Try and relax as much as you can," said Christy. "We'll give you a mild sedative before blast-off. Remember, there are going to be distinct variations in the G forces as we accelerate, so try to remember the breathing instructions." "I will," said Monk. "Once more, though--" "There'll be a steady buildup of acceleration for about ninety seconds. We'll go rapidly from zero gravity to nine. Breathe deeply and regularly on the way up. Then, when you feel a normal amount of pressure, hold your breath. Don't let it out until you feel the G forces increase again." "I understand," Monk nodded. "We'll get up to a peak of 8 G's, and hold that for about two minutes. Do the same thing--hold your breath when we start accelerating once more. It'll be easy after that." * * * * * The pilot made a final check of Monk's G suit and straps. Then he clapped the industrialist on the shoulder and strode off. Twenty minutes later, when they were ready for blast-off, a warning bell sounded throughout the ship. With a deafening roar of its rocket motors, the great vessel lifted itself laboriously from the ground, squatting on flame, filling Fletcher Monk's mind with the first real sense of fear since he learned the grim facts of his ailment in Rostov's office. Then the acceleration began, and in less than a minute, Monk knew a taste of Hell.