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."