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."