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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/30885-h.zip b/30885-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1772765 --- /dev/null +++ b/30885-h.zip diff --git a/30885-h/30885-h.htm b/30885-h/30885-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..47aeca9 --- /dev/null +++ b/30885-h/30885-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1270 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Heart, by Henry Slesar + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; background-color: #FFFFFF; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +.tr {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; margin-top: 5%; margin-bottom: 5%; padding: 2em; background-color: #f6f2f2; color: black; border: dotted black 1px;} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.caption {font-weight: bold; font-size:smaller;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.figleft { + float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-right: 0.25em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + + +/* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Heart, by Henry Slesar + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Heart + +Author: Henry Slesar + +Release Date: January 7, 2010 [EBook #30885] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEART *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="tr"><p class="center">Transcriber's Note:</p> +<p class="center">This etext was produced from Amazing Stories January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.</p></div> +<p> </p> + +<h1>HEART</h1> +<p> </p> +<h2>By HENRY SLESAR</h2> +<p> </p> +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>Monk had three questions he lived by: Where can I find it? +How much will it cost? When can you deliver? But now they +said that what he needed wasn't for sale. "Want to bet?" He +snorted.</i></p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_s.jpg" alt="S" width="41" height="50" /></div> +<p><i>ystole</i> ... <i>diastole</i> ... the Cardiophone listened, hummed, and +recorded; tracing a path of perilous peaks and precipices on the white +paper.</p> + +<p>"Relax!" Dr. Rostov pleaded. "Please relax, Mr. Monk!"</p> + +<p>The eyes of Fletcher Monk replied. Rostov knew their language well +enough to read the glaring messages they transmitted. Indignation ... +"<i>Don't use that commanding tone with me, Doctor!</i>" Protest ... "<i>I am +relaxed; completely relaxed!</i>" Warning.... "<i>Get me out of this +electric chair, Rostov!</i>"</p> + +<p>The physician sighed and clicked the apparatus off. Swiftly, but with +knowing fingers, he disengaged his patient from the wire and rubber +encumbrances of the reclining seat. Fletcher Monk sat up and rubbed +his forearms, watching every movement the doctor made as he prepared +to study the results of his examination.</p> + +<p>"You're fussing, Rostov," he said coldly. "My shirt."</p> + +<p>"In a moment."</p> + +<p>"<i>Now,</i>" said Monk impatiently.</p> + +<p>The physician shook his head sadly. He handed Monk his shirt and +waited until the big man had buttoned it half way down. Then he +returned to the Cardiophone for a more critical study. A fine analysis +was hardly necessary; the alarming story had been told with the first +measurements of the heart machine.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/image_001.jpg" width="400" height="563" alt="Money buys anything, I tell you—anything!" title="" /> +<span class="caption">Money buys anything, I tell you—anything!</span> +</div> + +<p>"Cut it out," said Monk brusquely. "You've got that death's-head +look again, Rostov. If you want to say something, say it."</p> + +<p>"You were tight as a drum," said the doctor. "That's going to +influence my findings, you know. If you hadn't refused the narcotic—"</p> + +<p>Fletcher Monk barked: "I won't be drugged!"</p> + +<p>"It would have relaxed you—"</p> + +<p>"I was as relaxed as I ever am," the other man said candidly, and +Rostov recognized the truth of his analysis. Monk lived in a world of +taut muscles and nerves stretched out just below the breaking point. +Tenseness was his trademark; there was no more elasticity in Monk's +body than there was in the hard cash he accumulated so readily.</p> + +<p>"Well?" the patient jeered. "What's the verdict, you damned sawbones? +Going to throw away my cigars? Going to send me on a long sea voyage?"</p> + +<p>Rostov frowned.</p> + +<p>"Don't look so smug!" Monk exploded. "I know you think there's +something wrong with me. You can't wait to bury me!"</p> + +<p>"You're sick, Mr. Monk," said the doctor. "You're very sick."</p> + +<p>Monk glowered. "You're wrong," he said icily. "You've made a lousy +diagnosis."</p> + +<p>"What was that feeling you described?" asked Rostov. "Remember what +you told me? Like a big, black bird, flapping its wings in your chest. +Didn't that mean something to you, Mr. Monk?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The industrialist paled. "All right. Get to the point," he said +quietly. "What did that gadget tell you?"</p> + +<p>"Bad news," said the doctor. "Your heart's been strained almost to +bursting. It's working on will power, Mr. Monk; hardly anything else."</p> + +<p>"<i>Get to the point!</i>" Monk shouted.</p> + +<p>"That <i>is</i> the point," Rostov said stiffly. "You have a serious heart +condition. A dangerous condition. You've ignored eight years of my +advice, and now your heart is showing the effects."</p> + +<p>"What can it do to me?"</p> + +<p>"Kill you," said the doctor bluntly. "Frankly, I can't even promise +that the usual precautions will do any good. But we have no other +choice than to take them. The human body is a miraculous affair, and +even the most desperate damages sometimes can't prevent it from going +on living. But I won't mince words with you, Mr. Monk. You're a direct +sort of person, so I'm telling you directly. Your chances are slim."</p> + +<p>Monk sat down and put his black tie on distractedly. He sat deep in +thought for a while, and then said:</p> + +<p>"How much would it cost to fix it?"</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>"Money!" the big man cried. "How much money would it take to get me +repaired?"</p> + +<p>"But it's not a matter of money—"</p> + +<p>"Don't give me that!" Monk put his jacket on with a violent motion. +"I've learned better than that in my fifty years, Dr. Rostov. Money +fixes everything. Everything! I could curdle your milk by telling you +some of the things I've fixed with money!"</p> + +<p>The physician shrugged. "Money doesn't buy health."</p> + +<p>"Doesn't it?" The patient gave an abrupt laugh. "Money buys people, +Dr. Rostov. It buys loyalty and disloyalty. It buys friends and sells +enemies. All these are commodities, Doctor. I found that out—the hard +way."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Monk, you don't know what I'm telling you. Your heart action is +unreliable, and no amount of dollars can bring it back to normal—"</p> + +<p>The industrialist stood up. "You think the heart is incorruptible, +eh?" He snorted. "Well, I think different. Someplace on earth there's +a man or a method that can fix me up. It'll take money to find the +answer, that's for sure. But I'll find it!"</p> + +<p>Rostov put out his hand helplessly. "You're being unreasonable, Mr. +Monk. There is nothing on earth—"</p> + +<p>"<i>All right!</i>" Fletcher Monk shouted. "So maybe there's nothing on +Earth!" His body trembled with his emotion. "Then I'll go to the +stars, if I have to!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Rostov started. "If you mean this gravity business—"</p> + +<p>"What's that?" Monk froze. "What's that you said?"</p> + +<p>"This gravity thing," the doctor said. "This silly story about the +Mars Colony they've been spreading—"</p> + +<p>"What silly story?" asked Monk, narrowing his eyes. "I haven't heard +it. What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>Rostov regretted his words. But he knew it was too late to stop the +industrialist from extracting the details from him. He made a +despairing gesture and went over to his desk. From the top drawer, he +withdrew a folded sheet torn from the pages of a daily newspaper that +specialized in lurid articles and wild imaginings.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Monk snatched it from the doctor's hand. "Let me see that!" he said. +He turned the paper over in his hand until he found the red-pencilled +article the doctor had referred to.</p> + +<p>"MARS BOON TO HEART CASES, SAYS SPACE DOCTOR." Monk read the headline +aloud, and then looked at Rostov.</p> + +<p>"It's a misquotation," the physician said. "Dr. Feasley never made +such a bald statement. They've taken something out of context to make +a sensational story—"</p> + +<p>"Let me see for myself," snapped Monk.</p> + +<p>He began to read. "... 'Space Medicine Association ... Dr. Samuel +Feasley, renowned' ... here it is!... 'the effects of Earth's +gravitational pull on the body versus the relatively light gravitation +encountered by the members of the Martian Colony ... two-fifths the +pull of Earth ... interesting speculation on the heart action...!'" He +crushed the paper in his hands. "By God!" he cried. "Here's my answer, +you gloomy old fool!"</p> + +<p>"No, no!" said Rostov hurriedly. "You don't know what you're saying—"</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"But it's impossible! There are so many problems—"</p> + +<p>"Money solves problems!"</p> + +<p>"Not this one!" said the doctor heatedly. "Not the problem of +acceleration! You'll never reach Mars alive!"</p> + +<p>Monk paused. "What do you mean?" he blinked.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>nine</i> at one point. You'd never +make it!"</p> + +<p>"I'll never make it <i>here</i>," said Monk, biting out the words. "You +told me that yourself."</p> + +<p>"At least there's a chance," the doctor argued. "A slim one, surely. +But you're talking about almost certain death!"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Monk paced the floor. "But if I did pass it—"</p> + +<p>"Impossible!"</p> + +<p>"But if I <i>did</i>," Monk insisted. "Would my chances for living be +better on Mars?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose so. Your heart wouldn't have to work nearly so hard. You'd +weigh less than ninety pounds...."</p> + +<p>"Then it's worth a try, isn't it?" He grasped the physician by the +shoulders and shook him. "Isn't it?" he shouted.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Monk, I can't let you even consider it!"</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> can't?" Monk looked at him threateningly. "Are you dictating my +affairs now, Doctor? Are you forgetting who I am?"</p> + +<p>"The Mars Colony is a working organization," the doctor said, +desperately. "The life there is hard, rugged—"</p> + +<p>"<i>Hard?</i>" Monk roared. "Hardness and Monk are synonymous words, Doctor +Rostov. Don't you read the papers? Don't you know what they call me? +The Iron Millionaire!" He laughed. "And there's something else you're +not aware of. I own a lot of this country. But I also own a good piece +of the Mars Colony. Just let 'em try and stop me!"</p> + +<p>Rostov threw his hands in the air. "You're completely off balance, Mr. +Monk. What you're thinking about is impossible in a dozen different +ways. But I'm not going to worry about it. You'll never get near a +space vessel—"</p> + +<p>"That remains to be seen," said Monk.</p> + +<p>"The best thing for you," the doctor continued, "is to start slowing +down—right now, today. And the first project we have to work on is +the loss of some thirty or forty pounds. You're much too heavy for +that heart of yours."</p> + +<p>Monk didn't appear to be listening. Thoughtfully, he reached inside +his coat and brought out a long black cigar. He bit off the end and +spat it out onto the polished floor of the examining room.</p> + +<p>"You'll have to lose those, too," the doctor cautioned. "Cigars are +out."</p> + +<p>Fletcher Monk jammed the cigar between his teeth. He looked at the +doctor and smiled grimly.</p> + +<p>"O.K., Doc," he said. "I'm going to follow your advice. And the first +thing I'm going to arrange is the loss of some weight." He lit the +cigar and puffed heavily. "About a hundred and thirty pounds," he +said.</p> + +<p>Monk put his hat on his head and walked out. He felt better already.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Monk found his informant in the person of a Spacelane employee named +Horner. Garcia, the converted hood that now "assisted" Monk in his +personal affairs, brought the Spacelane man into the industrialist's +office and gestured him into a chair.</p> + +<p>"All right," said Monk. "Garcia's told you what I want. Now let's go." +He picked up a paper from his desk, and began to read off the list of +typewritten names.</p> + +<p>"Houston," he said.</p> + +<p>"No good," said Horner. "He's the dispatch officer. Crusty old guy. +Spent eleven years in space, and he's plenty mean."</p> + +<p>"I don't care about his disposition," said Monk testily. "Can he be +bought?"</p> + +<p>Horner shook his head. "I doubt it."</p> + +<p>"All right, then." Monk rattled the paper. "How about Roth?"</p> + +<p>"Uh-uh. He's the Chief Medical Officer. Very Army. He helped draft the +original physical standards for space flight."</p> + +<p>"Davis!" said Monk.</p> + +<p>"Well ..." Horner looked pensive. "He doesn't mind a fast buck now and +then. But he's only a Supplies Officer. He couldn't do anything about +smuggling you aboard."</p> + +<p>"Christy."</p> + +<p>"Don't know much about Christy. He's a pilot, and pretty +close-mouthed. Spends most of his time between trips in the bosom of +his family, so to speak. Which is maybe understandable, because he's +got a wife that is absolutely—"</p> + +<p>"Skip that junk," said Garcia toughly. "The boss wants facts."</p> + +<p>"Keep out of this, you," said Monk. He smiled humorlessly at Horner. +"What about Christy's wife?"</p> + +<p>"Well, she's—I mean, she's a looker, understand? A real beauty. Only +from what I heard around the base, she's a groundworm's delight, if +you know what I mean—"</p> + +<p>"I don't know what you mean," said Monk patiently.</p> + +<p>"Well, with her husband away six months out of every year, and a +swell-lookin' doll like that ... Figure it out for yourself."</p> + +<p>Monk grunted. "I'll keep it in mind," he said. "Now how about this +fellow Forsch?"</p> + +<p>"Maybe there's something there," said Horner. "He's a doctor, too. +Handles most of the routine physicals. But I heard a rumor about some +pretty unethical practices he was mixed up in before he took this job. +There may be nothing to it, but if you could look into it—"</p> + +<p>"I will," said Monk abruptly. He handed the paper over to the +Spacelane employee. "Anybody else here you want to tell me about?"</p> + +<p>Horner looked over the list.</p> + +<p>"That's about it, I guess," he said. "Nobody here can do you any good. +But you look into this guy Forsch. He may be your boy."</p> + +<p>Monk smiled tightly.</p> + +<p>"Pay him," he said to Garcia.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>When the detectives handed Fletcher Monk the completed report on the +activities of Diana Christy, he read it through thoroughly, savoring +each juicy word between puffs of his cigar. The report was excellently +constructed. It was painstaking in its detail. It named names, places, +times, events, and even recorded certain revealing conversations. It +gave the background of each of Mrs. Christy's lovers, even down to +their income and place of birth.</p> + +<p>It was a marvelous document, in Monk's estimation, and not the first +of its kind he had had prepared. A powerful piece of persuasion.</p> + +<p>With great satisfaction, he replaced the volume in an envelope and +buzzed for Garcia. His instructions to the assistant were crisp and +definite. The assignment was the kind that Garcia both understood and +relished. He took the report from Monk's hands and went on his way to +call on the lady in question.</p> + +<p>Bill Christy, recently returned from a Mars flight, was both amazed +and disturbed by the strange request his beautiful young wife made of +him. It was awful—illegal—even criminal! To arrange for the +certification of a man with a weak heart; to virtually counterfeit +the medical records of the Spacelane Company!</p> + +<p>But he <i>was</i> her uncle, Diana Christy pleaded. The only relative she +had in the world; the only one she loved outside of Christy himself. +He <i>must</i> help her; he must give her poor sick uncle a chance to make +a new life for himself in the Mars Colony.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But the risk—</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>And of course, finally, with her cool arms about his neck and her soft +cheek pressed against his, he replied:</p> + +<p>"I'll do it."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>Aboard the ship, the pilot Bill Christy gave him a worried glance and +assisted him into the contour chair. Christy showed concern.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I will," said Monk. "Once more, though—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I understand," Monk nodded.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The pilot made a final check of Monk's G suit and straps. Then he +clapped the industrialist on the shoulder and strode off.</p> + +<p>Twenty minutes later, when they were ready for blast-off, a warning +bell sounded throughout the ship.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Then the acceleration began, and in less than a minute, Monk knew a +taste of Hell.</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>Then Monk gasped.</p> + +<p>Gone! The bird was gone! A moment's peace, a moment's peace, a +moment's freedom from torment—</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>Fletcher Monk screamed.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>He opened his eyes, admitted a rush of clean air gratefully into his +lungs.</p> + +<p>"It's a miracle," said Bill Christy. "Nothing more. You were in a bad +way, Mr. Wheeler, but you'll be okay now."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, thank you!" panted Fletcher Monk.</p> + +<p>"We're well on our way now. We'll reach the Big Bird in a matter of +minutes—"</p> + +<p>"The Big Bird?" said Monk in horror.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Are you sure?" said Monk anxiously.</p> + +<p>"Positive. There won't be any gravitational pull to overcome this +time. You'll be fine."</p> + +<p>"I appreciate this, Christy. I won't forget your help."</p> + +<p>"That's okay, Mr. Wheeler. It makes my wife happy."</p> + +<p>"Yes." Monk felt well enough now to give the pilot a sardonic smile. +"She's a wonderful girl, Diana. A wonderful girl."</p> + +<p>"You're telling me?" said Bill Christy.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The passengers were led into the Quarantine Section, where they would +spend their first three days on Mars.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>Monk smiled. "Just feeling good, that's all." He patted the brown +leather bag in his hand.</p> + +<p>"Name?"</p> + +<p>"Well, it will be listed as Wheeler...."</p> + +<p>The official scanned the list. "Here it is. Ben Wheeler." He looked up +at Monk curiously. "How old are you, Mr. Wheeler?"</p> + +<p>"Fifty," said Monk.</p> + +<p>"Pretty old for the Colony, aren't you, Mr. Wheeler?"</p> + +<p>Monk smirked. "The first thing we have to do is get rid of that +Wheeler business, young man. My name is Monk. Fletcher Monk."</p> + +<p>The official looked puzzled. "I don't get it. Why the phoney name?"</p> + +<p>"I used an alias for reasons of my own. Now I'm telling you my real +name. Monk."</p> + +<p>The man shrugged and wrote something on the manifest.</p> + +<p>"I don't expect you to cheer," said Monk sarcastically. "But you could +show some reaction."</p> + +<p>"What does that mean?"</p> + +<p>Monk flushed. "Don't tell me you've never heard of me. I'm <i>Fletcher +Monk</i>. I <i>own</i> half of this place."</p> + +<p>"So?"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean 'so?' My firm controls thirty percent of the mineral +rights of the Colony. We ship you practically all of your Earth +supplies. We can buy or sell this place at the drop of a quotation!"</p> + +<p>"Listen, bud." The young man seemed annoyed. "If you're trying to +impress me, forget it. And if you're threatening my job, you can take +it!"</p> + +<p>"Insolence!" Monk raged. "Who's your commanding officer? I want to see +him right away!"</p> + +<p>"My pleasure," the official grinned. "Hey, Gregorio!" he called to the +man at the desk behind him. "Call Captain Moore. Gentleman here wants +a word with him."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Monk took a seat while the other passengers went through the initial +formalities. He sat there, fuming, until a tall man with an untrimmed +beard entered the room. He took off his helmet and spoke briefly to +the young man at the front desk, then looked over at Monk and came to +his side.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Monk?" he said. "I'm Captain Moore."</p> + +<p>"Nice to meet you, Captain. I've just had a little conversation with +your official greeter." He smiled, man-to-man. "Not a very friendly +chap."</p> + +<p>"We forget a lot about manners up here," said the captain, not smiling +back. "We're kept pretty busy."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>"I realize that, of course," said the industrialist. "But I would +expect a little common courtesy—"</p> + +<p>"You'll <i>earn</i> the right to courtesy out here, Mr. Monk," the captain +snapped. "The Mars Colony lives on labor, and that's our first +consideration. Courtesy comes about last on our list. We're in a +battle here, twenty-four hours and thirty-seven minutes a day. We've +got to fight to keep alive, and we've got to wrestle with a whole new +planet if we want to unearth its secrets. Courtesy is a distinct +privilege on Mars, Mr. Monk."</p> + +<p>Monk bristled. "I don't quite get your meaning, Captain," he said +indignantly. "But don't expect to pull rank or a holy attitude on me. +In case you didn't realize it, I'm in a position to exert a great deal +of influence over your little colony—and don't think I won't use it!"</p> + +<p>The captain shrugged. "Use it," he said. "Go on. See if your influence +really holds up here. Remember, Mr. Monk—you came to us of your own +volition, and you can always turn around and go back."</p> + +<p>"Impossible," said Monk, blanching. "I'm going to live here—for +good."</p> + +<p>"Then you'll have to adjust to <i>our</i> way," said the captain grimly. +"You'll have to learn our way of doing things and cooperate a hundred +percent. And the first thing you'll have to do is take a work +assignment—"</p> + +<p>"Work?" Monk gasped. "Why should I? You can't force me to work for +you—"</p> + +<p>"Remember Captain John Smith, Mr. Monk? He said the same thing to his +colonists that I'm going to say to you now. If you don't work—you +don't eat."</p> + +<p>"But what could I do? I'm no scientist. I'm no—"</p> + +<p>"There's plenty to do," the captain interrupted. "And most of it is +dirty, physical labor. We have a thousand minerologists, chemists, +geologists, botanists, physicists, meteorologists, and a lot more +technical people at work on this planet. They can use all the help +they can get. Don't worry about that!"</p> + +<p>"But I'm <i>Fletcher Monk</i>!" the industrialist said. "I won't go +grubbing around this filthy place! You can't enslave me like some +chain-gang prisoner—"</p> + +<p>"You'll do what you have to do," said the captain, "and you'll +probably even like it. There's a wonderland outside this door," he +said enthusiastically. "A crazy, wild, improbable wonderland, where we +never see a rain-fall, where the plants grow scarlet, and clouds chase +you down the street! We're uncovering marvelous things here. We have +to fight and sometimes die to do it, but frankly, we enjoy the work."</p> + +<p>He gave Monk his first smile. "Nobody's a prisoner on Mars, Mr. Monk. +We're all volunteers."</p> + +<p>He started to leave, but Monk stopped him.</p> + +<p>"Wait," he said, licking his lips. "I have one more thing to say." He +lowered his voice. "I can make a deal with you, Captain. A deal like +you never had in your whole life." He patted the brown leather bag. +"Name your price," he said. "And don't be shy about the figure."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"You know what I'm talking about, Mr. Moore. Money. Real, hard, Earth +dollars. Just name the amount it would take to buy a few small +creature comforts around this place—and the right to live my own +life."</p> + +<p>"You can't buy your way out of working, mister—"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>"Don't give me that! You'll sing a different tune when I tell you how +much is in this bag. All you have to do is quote a figure—and it's +yours!"</p> + +<p>"Sorry, Mr. Monk," said the captain tersely.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean by <i>sorry</i>?"</p> + +<p>"I'm on a lifetime assignment here, and so are practically all the +members of the Colony. It's a job that can barely be completed in a +lifetime. And the economy we operate under doesn't call for money. +Your dollars are so much excess baggage on Mars."</p> + +<p>"What are you talking about?" Monk rasped. "I'm offering you a +fortune. Money is money, you fool!"</p> + +<p>"You can paper the walls of your quarters with it," said the officer +sharply. "See if it helps keep out the Martian cold. That's about all +the usefulness it has up here."</p> + +<p>Wildly, Fletcher Monk unlocked the bag and dipped inside. His hand +came out with a fistfull of green bills. "Look!" he cried. "I'm not +joking about this! Look at it! Doesn't the sight of it mean anything +to you?"</p> + +<p>"It brings back some memories," said the captain smiling. "That's +about all. Now you better go back to the desk and get your quarantine +instructions."</p> + +<p>He saluted the industrialist casually, and turned away.</p> + +<p>"Okay, Mr. Moneybags," said the young official as the captain left. +"Let's get acquainted."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>A year later, Captain Harlan Moore presided at the dedication of the +first fully-equipped hospital erected on the planet Mars. It was an +impressive affair, despite the fact that it took place in a small, +crowded chamber, and that the attending assemblage were still begrimed +by their day's work.</p> + +<p>When the ceremonies were completed, Captain Moore made an inspection +of the new medical center, and one of his first stops was the bed-side +of Fletcher Monk.</p> + +<p>"We knew he wasn't a well man," said the young physician who stood by +the bed, taking Monk's pulse. He watched as the captain picked up the +chart hooked to the edge of the bed.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Moore. "He was a very sick man when he first came to the +Colony. In more ways than one," he added.</p> + +<p>The doctor looked perplexed. "But this illness still surprises me," he +said. "I've examined him almost monthly for the past year, and +frankly, I would have bet on his survival. He began to improve +rapidly—physically, anyway. It might have been the lesser gravity, or +the healthier life." He looked at the captain curiously. "Yet he +wasn't assigned to any over-strenuous duties?"</p> + +<p>"You know he wasn't," said the captain. "We don't want anybody to +undertake work they can't handle. His labor was hardly physical. He +worked in the geological and botanical groups, but not in the field. +He did classifying and clerical work."</p> + +<p>"Then that wouldn't account for the trouble—"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it does, in a way," The captain bent over the puffy, +chalk-white face of the industrialist, listening to his shallow +breathing. "He was never happy doing it. He had different ideas about +himself than we did. He never understood what we were doing or why."</p> + +<p>"It's the greatest mystery of them all," said the physician, shaking +his head.</p> + +<p>"What is?"</p> + +<p>"The human body. It's incredible how much we've learned about the +physical world, and even the physical features of our own +construction. But there's still a mystery we haven't penetrated—"</p> + +<p>The captain smiled. "That doesn't sound like you."</p> + +<p>"I know," the young physician answered. "But when I see a case like +this—a man breathing his life away for a reason I really can't +understand—" The doctor rubbed the back of his head. "I know it's +crazy, and old-fashioned, and doesn't make the least bit of sense in +these scientific times, Captain. But if anyone were to ask me—off the +record, and completely unofficially—I could only give them one honest +diagnosis of this case. I think this man is dying of a broken heart."</p> + +<h3>THE END</h3> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Heart, by Henry Slesar + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEART *** + +***** This file should be named 30885-h.htm or 30885-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/8/8/30885/ + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Heart + +Author: Henry Slesar + +Release Date: January 7, 2010 [EBook #30885] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEART *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from Amazing Stories January 1957. Extensive + research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this + publication was renewed. + + + HEART + + + By HENRY SLESAR + + + _Monk had three questions he lived by: Where can I find it? + How much will it cost? When can you deliver? But now they + said that what he needed wasn't for sale. "Want to bet?" He + snorted._ + + * * * * * + + + + +_Systole_ ... _diastole_ ... the Cardiophone listened, hummed, and +recorded; tracing a path of perilous peaks and precipices on the white +paper. + +"Relax!" Dr. Rostov pleaded. "Please relax, Mr. Monk!" + +The eyes of Fletcher Monk replied. Rostov knew their language well +enough to read the glaring messages they transmitted. Indignation ... +"_Don't use that commanding tone with me, Doctor!_" Protest ... "_I am +relaxed; completely relaxed!_" Warning.... "_Get me out of this +electric chair, Rostov!_" + +The physician sighed and clicked the apparatus off. Swiftly, but with +knowing fingers, he disengaged his patient from the wire and rubber +encumbrances of the reclining seat. Fletcher Monk sat up and rubbed +his forearms, watching every movement the doctor made as he prepared +to study the results of his examination. + +"You're fussing, Rostov," he said coldly. "My shirt." + +"In a moment." + +"_Now,_" said Monk impatiently. + +The physician shook his head sadly. He handed Monk his shirt and +waited until the big man had buttoned it half way down. Then he +returned to the Cardiophone for a more critical study. A fine analysis +was hardly necessary; the alarming story had been told with the first +measurements of the heart machine. + +[Illustration: Money buys anything, I tell you--anything!] + +"Cut it out," said Monk brusquely. "You've got that death's-head +look again, Rostov. If you want to say something, say it." + +"You were tight as a drum," said the doctor. "That's going to +influence my findings, you know. If you hadn't refused the narcotic--" + +Fletcher Monk barked: "I won't be drugged!" + +"It would have relaxed you--" + +"I was as relaxed as I ever am," the other man said candidly, and +Rostov recognized the truth of his analysis. Monk lived in a world of +taut muscles and nerves stretched out just below the breaking point. +Tenseness was his trademark; there was no more elasticity in Monk's +body than there was in the hard cash he accumulated so readily. + +"Well?" the patient jeered. "What's the verdict, you damned sawbones? +Going to throw away my cigars? Going to send me on a long sea voyage?" + +Rostov frowned. + +"Don't look so smug!" Monk exploded. "I know you think there's +something wrong with me. You can't wait to bury me!" + +"You're sick, Mr. Monk," said the doctor. "You're very sick." + +Monk glowered. "You're wrong," he said icily. "You've made a lousy +diagnosis." + +"What was that feeling you described?" asked Rostov. "Remember what +you told me? Like a big, black bird, flapping its wings in your chest. +Didn't that mean something to you, Mr. Monk?" + + * * * * * + +The industrialist paled. "All right. Get to the point," he said +quietly. "What did that gadget tell you?" + +"Bad news," said the doctor. "Your heart's been strained almost to +bursting. It's working on will power, Mr. Monk; hardly anything else." + +"_Get to the point!_" Monk shouted. + +"That _is_ the point," Rostov said stiffly. "You have a serious heart +condition. A dangerous condition. You've ignored eight years of my +advice, and now your heart is showing the effects." + +"What can it do to me?" + +"Kill you," said the doctor bluntly. "Frankly, I can't even promise +that the usual precautions will do any good. But we have no other +choice than to take them. The human body is a miraculous affair, and +even the most desperate damages sometimes can't prevent it from going +on living. But I won't mince words with you, Mr. Monk. You're a direct +sort of person, so I'm telling you directly. Your chances are slim." + +Monk sat down and put his black tie on distractedly. He sat deep in +thought for a while, and then said: + +"How much would it cost to fix it?" + +"What?" + +"Money!" the big man cried. "How much money would it take to get me +repaired?" + +"But it's not a matter of money--" + +"Don't give me that!" Monk put his jacket on with a violent motion. +"I've learned better than that in my fifty years, Dr. Rostov. Money +fixes everything. Everything! I could curdle your milk by telling you +some of the things I've fixed with money!" + +The physician shrugged. "Money doesn't buy health." + +"Doesn't it?" The patient gave an abrupt laugh. "Money buys people, +Dr. Rostov. It buys loyalty and disloyalty. It buys friends and sells +enemies. All these are commodities, Doctor. I found that out--the hard +way." + +"Mr. Monk, you don't know what I'm telling you. Your heart action is +unreliable, and no amount of dollars can bring it back to normal--" + +The industrialist stood up. "You think the heart is incorruptible, +eh?" He snorted. "Well, I think different. Someplace on earth there's +a man or a method that can fix me up. It'll take money to find the +answer, that's for sure. But I'll find it!" + +Rostov put out his hand helplessly. "You're being unreasonable, Mr. +Monk. There is nothing on earth--" + +"_All right!_" Fletcher Monk shouted. "So maybe there's nothing on +Earth!" His body trembled with his emotion. "Then I'll go to the +stars, if I have to!" + + * * * * * + +Rostov started. "If you mean this gravity business--" + +"What's that?" Monk froze. "What's that you said?" + +"This gravity thing," the doctor said. "This silly story about the +Mars Colony they've been spreading--" + +"What silly story?" asked Monk, narrowing his eyes. "I haven't heard +it. What do you mean?" + +Rostov regretted his words. But he knew it was too late to stop the +industrialist from extracting the details from him. He made a +despairing gesture and went over to his desk. From the top drawer, he +withdrew a folded sheet torn from the pages of a daily newspaper that +specialized in lurid articles and wild imaginings. + + * * * * * + +Monk snatched it from the doctor's hand. "Let me see that!" he said. +He turned the paper over in his hand until he found the red-pencilled +article the doctor had referred to. + +"MARS BOON TO HEART CASES, SAYS SPACE DOCTOR." Monk read the headline +aloud, and then looked at Rostov. + +"It's a misquotation," the physician said. "Dr. Feasley never made +such a bald statement. They've taken something out of context to make +a sensational story--" + +"Let me see for myself," snapped Monk. + +He began to read. "... 'Space Medicine Association ... Dr. Samuel +Feasley, renowned' ... here it is!... 'the effects of Earth's +gravitational pull on the body versus the relatively light gravitation +encountered by the members of the Martian Colony ... two-fifths the +pull of Earth ... interesting speculation on the heart action...!'" He +crushed the paper in his hands. "By God!" he cried. "Here's my answer, +you gloomy old fool!" + +"No, no!" said Rostov hurriedly. "You don't know what you're saying--" + +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." + + * * * * * + +Monk paced the floor. "But if I did pass it--" + +"Impossible!" + +"But if I _did_," Monk insisted. "Would my chances for living be +better on Mars?" + +"I suppose so. Your heart wouldn't have to work nearly so hard. You'd +weigh less than ninety pounds...." + +"Then it's worth a try, isn't it?" He grasped the physician by the +shoulders and shook him. "Isn't it?" he shouted. + +"Mr. Monk, I can't let you even consider it!" + +"_You_ can't?" Monk looked at him threateningly. "Are you dictating my +affairs now, Doctor? Are you forgetting who I am?" + +"The Mars Colony is a working organization," the doctor said, +desperately. "The life there is hard, rugged--" + +"_Hard?_" Monk roared. "Hardness and Monk are synonymous words, Doctor +Rostov. Don't you read the papers? Don't you know what they call me? +The Iron Millionaire!" He laughed. "And there's something else you're +not aware of. I own a lot of this country. But I also own a good piece +of the Mars Colony. Just let 'em try and stop me!" + +Rostov threw his hands in the air. "You're completely off balance, Mr. +Monk. What you're thinking about is impossible in a dozen different +ways. But I'm not going to worry about it. You'll never get near a +space vessel--" + +"That remains to be seen," said Monk. + +"The best thing for you," the doctor continued, "is to start slowing +down--right now, today. And the first project we have to work on is +the loss of some thirty or forty pounds. You're much too heavy for +that heart of yours." + +Monk didn't appear to be listening. Thoughtfully, he reached inside +his coat and brought out a long black cigar. He bit off the end and +spat it out onto the polished floor of the examining room. + +"You'll have to lose those, too," the doctor cautioned. "Cigars are +out." + +Fletcher Monk jammed the cigar between his teeth. He looked at the +doctor and smiled grimly. + +"O.K., Doc," he said. "I'm going to follow your advice. And the first +thing I'm going to arrange is the loss of some weight." He lit the +cigar and puffed heavily. "About a hundred and thirty pounds," he +said. + +Monk put his hat on his head and walked out. He felt better already. + + * * * * * + +Monk found his informant in the person of a Spacelane employee named +Horner. Garcia, the converted hood that now "assisted" Monk in his +personal affairs, brought the Spacelane man into the industrialist's +office and gestured him into a chair. + +"All right," said Monk. "Garcia's told you what I want. Now let's go." +He picked up a paper from his desk, and began to read off the list of +typewritten names. + +"Houston," he said. + +"No good," said Horner. "He's the dispatch officer. Crusty old guy. +Spent eleven years in space, and he's plenty mean." + +"I don't care about his disposition," said Monk testily. "Can he be +bought?" + +Horner shook his head. "I doubt it." + +"All right, then." Monk rattled the paper. "How about Roth?" + +"Uh-uh. He's the Chief Medical Officer. Very Army. He helped draft the +original physical standards for space flight." + +"Davis!" said Monk. + +"Well ..." Horner looked pensive. "He doesn't mind a fast buck now and +then. But he's only a Supplies Officer. He couldn't do anything about +smuggling you aboard." + +"Christy." + +"Don't know much about Christy. He's a pilot, and pretty +close-mouthed. Spends most of his time between trips in the bosom of +his family, so to speak. Which is maybe understandable, because he's +got a wife that is absolutely--" + +"Skip that junk," said Garcia toughly. "The boss wants facts." + +"Keep out of this, you," said Monk. He smiled humorlessly at Horner. +"What about Christy's wife?" + +"Well, she's--I mean, she's a looker, understand? A real beauty. Only +from what I heard around the base, she's a groundworm's delight, if +you know what I mean--" + +"I don't know what you mean," said Monk patiently. + +"Well, with her husband away six months out of every year, and a +swell-lookin' doll like that ... Figure it out for yourself." + +Monk grunted. "I'll keep it in mind," he said. "Now how about this +fellow Forsch?" + +"Maybe there's something there," said Horner. "He's a doctor, too. +Handles most of the routine physicals. But I heard a rumor about some +pretty unethical practices he was mixed up in before he took this job. +There may be nothing to it, but if you could look into it--" + +"I will," said Monk abruptly. He handed the paper over to the +Spacelane employee. "Anybody else here you want to tell me about?" + +Horner looked over the list. + +"That's about it, I guess," he said. "Nobody here can do you any good. +But you look into this guy Forsch. He may be your boy." + +Monk smiled tightly. + +"Pay him," he said to Garcia. + + * * * * * + +When the detectives handed Fletcher Monk the completed report on the +activities of Diana Christy, he read it through thoroughly, savoring +each juicy word between puffs of his cigar. The report was excellently +constructed. It was painstaking in its detail. It named names, places, +times, events, and even recorded certain revealing conversations. It +gave the background of each of Mrs. Christy's lovers, even down to +their income and place of birth. + +It was a marvelous document, in Monk's estimation, and not the first +of its kind he had had prepared. A powerful piece of persuasion. + +With great satisfaction, he replaced the volume in an envelope and +buzzed for Garcia. His instructions to the assistant were crisp and +definite. The assignment was the kind that Garcia both understood and +relished. He took the report from Monk's hands and went on his way to +call on the lady in question. + +Bill Christy, recently returned from a Mars flight, was both amazed +and disturbed by the strange request his beautiful young wife made of +him. It was awful--illegal--even criminal! To arrange for the +certification of a man with a weak heart; to virtually counterfeit +the medical records of the Spacelane Company! + +But he _was_ her uncle, Diana Christy pleaded. The only relative she +had in the world; the only one she loved outside of Christy himself. +He _must_ help her; he must give her poor sick uncle a chance to make +a new life for himself in the Mars Colony. + +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. + +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." + +The official looked puzzled. "I don't get it. Why the phoney name?" + +"I used an alias for reasons of my own. Now I'm telling you my real +name. Monk." + +The man shrugged and wrote something on the manifest. + +"I don't expect you to cheer," said Monk sarcastically. "But you could +show some reaction." + +"What does that mean?" + +Monk flushed. "Don't tell me you've never heard of me. I'm _Fletcher +Monk_. I _own_ half of this place." + +"So?" + +"What do you mean 'so?' My firm controls thirty percent of the mineral +rights of the Colony. We ship you practically all of your Earth +supplies. We can buy or sell this place at the drop of a quotation!" + +"Listen, bud." The young man seemed annoyed. "If you're trying to +impress me, forget it. And if you're threatening my job, you can take +it!" + +"Insolence!" Monk raged. "Who's your commanding officer? I want to see +him right away!" + +"My pleasure," the official grinned. "Hey, Gregorio!" he called to the +man at the desk behind him. "Call Captain Moore. Gentleman here wants +a word with him." + + * * * * * + +Monk took a seat while the other passengers went through the initial +formalities. He sat there, fuming, until a tall man with an untrimmed +beard entered the room. He took off his helmet and spoke briefly to +the young man at the front desk, then looked over at Monk and came to +his side. + +"Mr. Monk?" he said. "I'm Captain Moore." + +"Nice to meet you, Captain. I've just had a little conversation with +your official greeter." He smiled, man-to-man. "Not a very friendly +chap." + +"We forget a lot about manners up here," said the captain, not smiling +back. "We're kept pretty busy." + + * * * * * + +"I realize that, of course," said the industrialist. "But I would +expect a little common courtesy--" + +"You'll _earn_ the right to courtesy out here, Mr. Monk," the captain +snapped. "The Mars Colony lives on labor, and that's our first +consideration. Courtesy comes about last on our list. We're in a +battle here, twenty-four hours and thirty-seven minutes a day. We've +got to fight to keep alive, and we've got to wrestle with a whole new +planet if we want to unearth its secrets. Courtesy is a distinct +privilege on Mars, Mr. Monk." + +Monk bristled. "I don't quite get your meaning, Captain," he said +indignantly. "But don't expect to pull rank or a holy attitude on me. +In case you didn't realize it, I'm in a position to exert a great deal +of influence over your little colony--and don't think I won't use it!" + +The captain shrugged. "Use it," he said. "Go on. See if your influence +really holds up here. Remember, Mr. Monk--you came to us of your own +volition, and you can always turn around and go back." + +"Impossible," said Monk, blanching. "I'm going to live here--for +good." + +"Then you'll have to adjust to _our_ way," said the captain grimly. +"You'll have to learn our way of doing things and cooperate a hundred +percent. And the first thing you'll have to do is take a work +assignment--" + +"Work?" Monk gasped. "Why should I? You can't force me to work for +you--" + +"Remember Captain John Smith, Mr. Monk? He said the same thing to his +colonists that I'm going to say to you now. If you don't work--you +don't eat." + +"But what could I do? I'm no scientist. I'm no--" + +"There's plenty to do," the captain interrupted. "And most of it is +dirty, physical labor. We have a thousand minerologists, chemists, +geologists, botanists, physicists, meteorologists, and a lot more +technical people at work on this planet. They can use all the help +they can get. Don't worry about that!" + +"But I'm _Fletcher Monk_!" the industrialist said. "I won't go +grubbing around this filthy place! You can't enslave me like some +chain-gang prisoner--" + +"You'll do what you have to do," said the captain, "and you'll +probably even like it. There's a wonderland outside this door," he +said enthusiastically. "A crazy, wild, improbable wonderland, where we +never see a rain-fall, where the plants grow scarlet, and clouds chase +you down the street! We're uncovering marvelous things here. We have +to fight and sometimes die to do it, but frankly, we enjoy the work." + +He gave Monk his first smile. "Nobody's a prisoner on Mars, Mr. Monk. +We're all volunteers." + +He started to leave, but Monk stopped him. + +"Wait," he said, licking his lips. "I have one more thing to say." He +lowered his voice. "I can make a deal with you, Captain. A deal like +you never had in your whole life." He patted the brown leather bag. +"Name your price," he said. "And don't be shy about the figure." + +"What do you mean?" + +"You know what I'm talking about, Mr. Moore. Money. Real, hard, Earth +dollars. Just name the amount it would take to buy a few small +creature comforts around this place--and the right to live my own +life." + +"You can't buy your way out of working, mister--" + + * * * * * + +"Don't give me that! You'll sing a different tune when I tell you how +much is in this bag. All you have to do is quote a figure--and it's +yours!" + +"Sorry, Mr. Monk," said the captain tersely. + +"What do you mean by _sorry_?" + +"I'm on a lifetime assignment here, and so are practically all the +members of the Colony. It's a job that can barely be completed in a +lifetime. And the economy we operate under doesn't call for money. +Your dollars are so much excess baggage on Mars." + +"What are you talking about?" Monk rasped. "I'm offering you a +fortune. Money is money, you fool!" + +"You can paper the walls of your quarters with it," said the officer +sharply. "See if it helps keep out the Martian cold. That's about all +the usefulness it has up here." + +Wildly, Fletcher Monk unlocked the bag and dipped inside. His hand +came out with a fistfull of green bills. "Look!" he cried. "I'm not +joking about this! Look at it! Doesn't the sight of it mean anything +to you?" + +"It brings back some memories," said the captain smiling. "That's +about all. Now you better go back to the desk and get your quarantine +instructions." + +He saluted the industrialist casually, and turned away. + +"Okay, Mr. Moneybags," said the young official as the captain left. +"Let's get acquainted." + + * * * * * + +A year later, Captain Harlan Moore presided at the dedication of the +first fully-equipped hospital erected on the planet Mars. It was an +impressive affair, despite the fact that it took place in a small, +crowded chamber, and that the attending assemblage were still begrimed +by their day's work. + +When the ceremonies were completed, Captain Moore made an inspection +of the new medical center, and one of his first stops was the bed-side +of Fletcher Monk. + +"We knew he wasn't a well man," said the young physician who stood by +the bed, taking Monk's pulse. He watched as the captain picked up the +chart hooked to the edge of the bed. + +"Yes," said Moore. "He was a very sick man when he first came to the +Colony. In more ways than one," he added. + +The doctor looked perplexed. "But this illness still surprises me," he +said. "I've examined him almost monthly for the past year, and +frankly, I would have bet on his survival. He began to improve +rapidly--physically, anyway. It might have been the lesser gravity, or +the healthier life." He looked at the captain curiously. "Yet he +wasn't assigned to any over-strenuous duties?" + +"You know he wasn't," said the captain. "We don't want anybody to +undertake work they can't handle. His labor was hardly physical. He +worked in the geological and botanical groups, but not in the field. +He did classifying and clerical work." + +"Then that wouldn't account for the trouble--" + +"Perhaps it does, in a way," The captain bent over the puffy, +chalk-white face of the industrialist, listening to his shallow +breathing. "He was never happy doing it. He had different ideas about +himself than we did. He never understood what we were doing or why." + +"It's the greatest mystery of them all," said the physician, shaking +his head. + +"What is?" + +"The human body. It's incredible how much we've learned about the +physical world, and even the physical features of our own +construction. But there's still a mystery we haven't penetrated--" + +The captain smiled. "That doesn't sound like you." + +"I know," the young physician answered. "But when I see a case like +this--a man breathing his life away for a reason I really can't +understand--" The doctor rubbed the back of his head. "I know it's +crazy, and old-fashioned, and doesn't make the least bit of sense in +these scientific times, Captain. But if anyone were to ask me--off the +record, and completely unofficially--I could only give them one honest +diagnosis of this case. I think this man is dying of a broken heart." + +THE END + + * * * * * + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Heart, by Henry Slesar + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEART *** + +***** This file should be named 30885.txt or 30885.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/8/8/30885/ + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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