"I already saw it. Stinks. Besides, I have a roundtrip ticket good for two years, so you don't have to buy me anything. You just mind your business, and I'll mind mine. All I want to do is ride the rings." "Well, I'll take you up tonight. Then will you leave?" "Hell, no. You're not taking me anywhere. Didn't you know I got my pilot's license?" "Oh, no. Don't tell me it's come to that. They didn't give you a license!" "Oh yes they did. Fifth try this year, and I finally made it. Nice young inspector, took me out to dinner afterwards. First they set his arm, but it wasn't my fault. Those damn asteroids can really pop up out of nowhere. Well, Smitty, which is my domette?" Socrates sighed. He had no choice. If he didn't let her stay she'd make it her business to talk to Farquhart before she left. Then Farquhart would say the place was unsafe because she had a license. And yet Socrates wouldn't let her ride the rings. As simple as that. He gave her a key. "Here. But do me a favor." "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....