"What's that?"
"At least don't go up without letting me know. I want to be nearby.
Please--"
She nodded and skipped out of the room, laughing.
Socrates knew that if you stayed in the two bright rings, and if you
kept within the prescribed speed limit of three miles a second in the
rings, you'd be all right. But not Norma. She'd hop her rockets to
seven at the very least, and even though the sun blazed off each meteor
in the rings with the reflecting brilliance of a beacon, she'd be sure
to find some way to get into trouble--
Socrates wondered which would be better. If he murdered Norma her
social set would bring every detective in the System to Mimas, and if
he murdered Farquhart he'd have the government on his hands.
He drank a glass of Martian _thlomot_ and looked in the mirror. His
face was haggard. "You musn't think those thoughts, friend," he said.
"This is the twenty-third century."
* * * * *
On Monday he took up five tourists, and his half dozen pilots were
equally busy. But everytime he came back he saw Farquhart at the port,
like an undertaker, looking to see if anyone had been injured.
"You liked it?" he'd say. "Izatso? Really liked it eh? Amazing--"
With dread, Socrates awaited the first space-sick tourist. That's all
it would take: one. Farquhart would be more than happy to brand Mimas
unsafe for tourists, Saturn's rings a hazard, and Mr. Socrates Smith a
nincompoop. Maybe it was because his brother owned a spa on Venus. Or
was it an exploratorium in the asteroid belt? His cousin?
But space was calm and remarkably free of ether-drift, and Socrates
thought that maybe, just maybe, everything would turn out all right.
Farquhart might leave, grumbling but satisfied, any day now. It all
depended on Norma. If Farquhart left before Norma decided she was ready
to ride the ring....
On Wednesday he spent six hours with Norma, dinner of a particularly
succulent Venusian reptile, Martian white wine, Earth trimmings. They
danced the archaic Mambo, which Socrates had revived after three
hundred years, and which showed every indication of sweeping the System
by storm. Surprisingly, Socrates had to admit to himself that he
enjoyed the evening, if only because he knew he had kept Norma busy.
That meant one more day and one more night in which she had not visited
the rings. It brought them one day closer to the time when Farquhart
would leave.
But the kiss was different. He kissed her goodnight outside her domette
and for a moment he forgot all about Farquhart. "I'll be damned," he
said. "I liked it."
"Umm," she said, and they kissed again.
Socrates released her, turned around, and began to walk down the path
through the artificial garden toward his own domette. She called after
him.
"Thanks for a lovely evening, Smitty."
"Don't mention it.
"You know what?"
"What?"
"I think I'll ride the rings tomorrow. Well, goodnight."
Socrates tried to say goodnight, but only gurgles came out.
* * * * *
He was at the spacefield early in the morning. Morning on Mimas was,
of course, a relative term. It was morning on Mimas when the sun set,
because then the great bulk of Saturn came up over the horizon and
filled one third of the heavens, lighting the sky almost like the
noonday sun on Earth, its great triple ring spanning the void almost
from horizon to horizon.
The ring--and Norma wanted to ride it today! Socrates trembled a little
when he thought of this, but he knew that for a time at least he could
go about his business. He had checked Norma's domette and she had not
been there; but she had told him that she would not ride the rings
without letting him know. That much at least he could be sure of--Norma
would be as good as her word.
At the Administration Building, the Entwhistles awaited him. "Good
morning," Socrates said, trying to sound cheerful.
"Morning?" This was Mrs. Entwhistle, big and round and overbearing.
"How can it be morning? The sun just set."
Socrates explained to her, and then Mr. Entwhistle declared: "You must
never argue with a man who knows, my dear. That's his business, and if
he says it is morning, why then, it is morning."
"Well, who will it be?" Socrates said.
"Well--" Mr. Entwhistle began.
"Me," said Mrs. Entwhistle. "I want to go first because if it seems too
strenuous to me then I won't send Arnold. Is it strenuous, Mr. Smith?"
"Uh-uh. You got a medical exam on the inner worlds which okayed you for
outworld tourist travel. If you passed that you'll be fine here. Ready
any time you are, Mrs. Entwhistle."
Mrs. Entwhistle turned white under the sunburn which she evidently had
received on one of the Martian desert resorts. It was not uncommon:
many of the tourists seemed afraid at first--after all, you took a
flimsy little two-seater and jockeyed it among the tiny motes of
Saturn's rings. The word tiny, of course, could be confusing. Some of
those motes could make a two-man cruiser look like a small speck of
dust. If you didn't know how safe all that reflected sunlight was you'd
be afraid. But the light was sufficient, and an alert pilot simply had
to mind his business and you had nothing to worry about.
* * * * *
Socrates got into his vac suit rapidly and adjusted the glassite helmet
over his head. He had the attendants bring an oversized suit for Mrs.
Entwhistle, although he did not tell her that was the case at all. The
vac suits represented the final precautionary measure. Any good pilot
could avoid the larger chunks with ease, but once in a long long while
a smaller particle might somehow elude the force-field which was there
to protect against it, and the vac suit assured all tourists of a
personal supply of air.
"All set, Mrs. Entwhistle?"
"Yes. Yes--only, you're sure it's safe?"
"I'd take my own wife--"
Mr. Entwhistle smiled. "You married? I didn't know you were married,
Mr. Smith."
"He's not. Can't you see that he's not married, Arnold?"
"I'm not," Socrates admitted. "But I'd cheerfully take my own mother.
You'll be safe, Mrs. Entwhistle."
Mrs. Entwhistle seemed a little taken aback by this remark, but
her husband said, "Be careful, Gertrude," and then they closed the
faceplate on her glassite helmet.