So she let him alone and went about the business of braking. She heard no more groans from Trase. But when she went back to see him, there he would be with his hands gripped until the knuckles showed white, with the bedclothes gripped between his teeth. "I'll make it, Irinia," he would gasp. Then sometimes she would hear him cry, "I'll be there, God of Time, I'll be there!" Space-sickness and nausea.... Those it doesn't kill generally try to kill themselves. Well, from fifty million miles it's a four-day trip to shoot the rings and get started away again, and there was Trase with the universe spinning around his ears, suffering as much as anyone can suffer. They went in under the darkness of the huge outside ring, for the rings were canted at that time almost their total 28 degrees to the ecliptic. And then out of the misery and the eons of suffering Trase suddenly heard a voice, "Trase! Trase! Come to the Astrodome, we're shooting the rings! Trase, we're shooting the rings!" Trase prayed. His hands reached out for the bunk straps and he felt Irinia helping him. He had long ago lost everything on his stomach but the world whirled in a wild clanging clatter of craziness and he had to be guided along the passageway. "I can't make it!" he cried at once, and Irinia had to drag him back to his feet, and then he said, "Yes, I can--I'll be there." Well, that was the way Trase made it. His clothes reeking with his sickness, his body wasted away from inaction, his eyes dimmed and glazed over from suffering, his face a mask of thin ferocity from his determination. But he made it. There's Saturn, Trase. He looked out over the burning brilliant flatness of the crape ring to the huge yellow hulk of the God of Time towering over him. The light and majesty of what he saw swam to his brain out of the fogs of bitterness that had shrouded his soul and he saw it--one magnificent reason why men go to space. Personal Saturn, unreachable Saturn ... yellow, streaked with purple streamers, fading away at the edges into the blackness that is eternal space. From there at the edge of the crape ring it is as though you were standing on a plain of golden dust, staring up into the face of destiny. The features of the face are plain, formed out of the whirling evanescent colors of the gases whipped around on the surface by cyclonic winds. You can see rainbows and pots of gold fashioned and then whipped away to change to greater things. The breath of eternal mystery blows on the spirit, and spacemen say you can see anything you desire. The ship lurched this way and that as the jets kept it on its course, and Trase suddenly realized that the sickness had dropped away from him like a fetter. The ship headed back towards Titan for a refueling stop, but Trase sat there and stared at Saturn until the Astrodome got around to the front and the jet trails obscured the view at the rear. He was not sick while he looked at Saturn.