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.
His vision blurred as the crushing force of naked speed pasted him
against the contour seat. Consciousness began to leave him, but not
soon enough. For there, in the tortured imaginings of his
pain-constricted brain, came the ugly black bird again, shrieking
horribly and perching itself on his chest. Its huge claws raked his
ribs, and its dripping beak fastened itself on his throat. Now he
recognized the species for what it was: a vulture, a bird of prey,
unwilling to be robbed of its Earth victim; trying to pinion him to
the planet with the strength of its anger. Its great wings flapped,
flapped, flapped, beating against his body, flooding it with
unrelieved anguish--
Then Monk gasped.
Gone! The bird was gone! A moment's peace, a moment's peace, a
moment's freedom from torment--
No! The vulture returned, bent on its evil purpose. It wouldn't be
denied; it raked its razor-sharp claws across Monk's shoulder; dug
its beak into his chest; flapping, flapping--
Fletcher Monk screamed.
* * * * *
He opened his eyes, admitted a rush of clean air gratefully into his
lungs.
"It's a miracle," said Bill Christy. "Nothing more. You were in a bad
way, Mr. Wheeler, but you'll be okay now."
"Thank you, thank you!" panted Fletcher Monk.
"We're well on our way now. We'll reach the Big Bird in a matter of
minutes--"
"The Big Bird?" said Monk in horror.
Christy smiled. "That's what we call the Space Station. We'll pick up
some supplies and fuel there, and then we'll take off again. But you
won't have to be concerned about the acceleration on the second
blast-off. You can take that easily."
"Are you sure?" said Monk anxiously.
"Positive. There won't be any gravitational pull to overcome this
time. You'll be fine."
"I appreciate this, Christy. I won't forget your help."
"That's okay, Mr. Wheeler. It makes my wife happy."
"Yes." Monk felt well enough now to give the pilot a sardonic smile.
"She's a wonderful girl, Diana. A wonderful girl."
"You're telling me?" said Bill Christy.
* * * * *
The space suit that Fletcher Monk had been assigned before the descent
on Mars was a little tight-fitting for his comfort. He wondered what
life would be like in this eternal bulky costume. But he was comforted
by the picture of the Mars Colony he had received back on Earth; a
labyrinth of airtight interiors, burrowing their way over and into the
planet, served by gigantic oxygen tanks. The network of buildings had
been expanding every year, until now it covered some hundred miles of
the planet's surface. He'd spend most of his time safely indoors, he
promised himself, where he wouldn't need the cumbersome trappings of
space clothing. His life had been an indoor affair anyway, back on
Earth.
The passengers were led into the Quarantine Section, where they would
spend their first three days on Mars.
It was a relief to Monk to shed the heavy space-suit in the air-filled
room. And it was a revelation, for with helmet and boots removed, he
found himself almost floating with each step he took, moving
feather-light over the ground. He was surprised, and a little unnerved
at first, but then he remembered that this feeble gravitation was the
preserver of his health--and he laughed aloud.
"Something funny?" said the man at the front desk. He was a young man,
about thirty, but there was an ageless competence in his features.
Monk smiled. "Just feeling good, that's all." He patted the brown
leather bag in his hand.
"Name?"
"Well, it will be listed as Wheeler...."
The official scanned the list. "Here it is. Ben Wheeler." He looked up
at Monk curiously. "How old are you, Mr. Wheeler?"
"Fifty," said Monk.
"Pretty old for the Colony, aren't you, Mr. Wheeler?"
Monk smirked. "The first thing we have to do is get rid of that
Wheeler business, young man. My name is Monk. Fletcher Monk."