that lots of women get the same idea, so maybe I'm not so terrible after all."

Dennis wailed from the nursery and Phyllis' thin cry joined his. "They're lonely," Dora said. "I'll go and see—"

"Wait. You didn't make a decision?"

"Of course I did." She smiled palely. "I reserved passage."

"But you can't go away! What would I do without you and the kids?"

"Don't shout so. You'll frighten them. And stop thinking about yourself. You know I'd be willing to undergo sterilization. But we can't inflict it on the kids when they're still too young to decide for themselves."

"I'll find some way out. There must be someone who'd be willing to be bought—"

"Don't talk that way," she tried to laugh. "After all, you've always said you'd like to have the children see another planet."

Greg sat down again and covered his face with his hands. "Don't say that, Dora. Sure, I'd like to take my family to Venus if they ever opened it up for colonization. But that's a fine planet. Mars is hell, and the law says I can't go with you or the kids."

"That's exactly right. The law says that we're breeding a cancer-free race of humans on Earth by sending to Mars all the people who prove to be susceptible."

Greg shook his head. "That plan wasn't set up just to breed out cancer prones. It was partly to keep Earth from starvation when overpopulation became an impossible problem. It isn't really a moral issue. Look, you can probably cancel your passage, and we can arrange sterilization. The kids will approve when they grow up."

Now it was Dora who held Greg close. "I don't want to leave you," she said desperately, "but there's nothing else to do. You know the Carstairs, and the Andresens. The same thing happened to both of those girls. They talked it over with their husbands and decided on sterilization, and the Andresens broke up the next year and Mrs. Carstairs is in a mental home...."

Greg was silent for a moment. Then he looked at her.

"When do you leave?"

The children wailed again. "I won't be here next Wednesday," she arose and walked unsteadily toward the nursery.

Greg drove the next morning through narrow streets and backed his car into a parking space close to his destination. He sat for a moment, frowning at the antiquated, dirty buildings, half-residential, half-business. Then he left the car and walked up the half-dozen uneven stone steps to Modern Laboratories.

Behind the small front office, Modern Laboratories contained an array of testtubes, some sluggish guinea pigs, and dusty bottles. A man who Greg knew must be Dr. Haskett stood in front of the bottles and looked dubiously at him.

"My contact told me to say that I need altitude shots," Greg said. "He also told me to say that I've heard of your success in transplantations."

"Sit down."

Greg found a stool, and looked unhappily at the grimy fingernails of Dr. Haskett which were now tapping the sink's edge. "Did your friend explain how much it will cost?"

"The check's written." Greg handed it over. "It's dated ahead. I can stop payment if you don't do what you promise. And secrecy is important. My wife doesn't know what I'm doing."

"Marta," Dr. Haskett called. A girl from the front office came into the laboratory, and in bored fashion pulled a soiled white robe over her street dress.

"Lie down here." Dr. Haskett shoved two tables together to provide a large, flat surface, and Marta shoved home the lock on the single door leading out of the room. "But sign this release, first. And undress. You prefer intravenous anaesthesia, I suppose?"

"There's not much risk?" Greg asked, his perspiring fingers slipping as he tried to unknot his tie. "Not much risk that you'll fail to make good ... a good transplantation?"

"I guarantee that part of it," Dr. Haskett said, opening a case and withdrawing instruments. "The only risk lies in the danger that it will grow too fast in six months."

"I won't give it a chance. My