"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—