Norma thought it would be a great thrill
to dodge the meteors in Saturn's forbidden Ring.
A thrill yes—but would she live to enjoy it?...
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
March 1952
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Mimas was a cold little world where the sun's rays seldom reached. Youstayed under a big glassite dome on the four-hundred mile sphere if youstayed there at all, and you hardly saw the sun anyway because Saturnand its rings were so big and so bright.
The temperature under the dome was kept in the forties because Mimaswas a summer resort, provided you wanted to travel three quarters of abillion miles to leave the heat and the bustle of the inferior planetsbehind you.
It was cold, but Mr. S. Smith sweated. The S. was for Socrates, buteveryone called him Smitty. Now he looked at his visitor and the sweatformed little glistening beads on his forehead. The man was short andstout with a bald head and a florid face. He looked silly next toSocrates Smith because Socrates stood six and a half feet tall withouthis space-boots, and he could have been a Martian bone bird for all theflesh on his body.
"That's the size of it, Smith," the florid little man said. "We don'tcare if you are a billion miles from the sun—"
"Eight-hundred eighty-five million nine-hundred and sixty-threethousand seventy-two," Socrates said proudly. "The most distantpleasure-spot in the Solar System. Want to get away from it all? Cometo Mimas, with Saturn's rings right in your backyard...."
"That's it. We've had enough monkey business. Government was suedbecause it sanctioned your artificial satellite above Jupiter's RedSpot. The Red Spot Palace—bah! More people complained of asthma—"
"I included spacesuits with each domette, Mr. Farquhart. How did I knowsomebody sold me an inferior product?"
Farquhart shook his head. "None of my business. All your customers wentto Mars to get rid of their asthma. Mars boomed, then over-produced.We had deflation, and the whole tourist business went to pot for threeyears. Why don't you try something simple like a spa on one of theVenusian islands? I got a cousin—"
"Too crowded, too much competition. No, Mr. Farquhart, I have somethingdifferent here. It'll make me a million. Then I can retire, buy me anestate on Ganymede and be out of your hair."
"It's not as simple as that, Smith. First I got to check this place.Is it safe? How do I know it's safe? Will you give phony asthma to tenthousand people again?"
Socrates still sweated, but he was all business now. "Of course it'ssafe. All my ships are war-surplus two-man cruisers, all twenty ofthem. You trust the Space Navy, don't you?"
"Naturally, naturally." Farquhart lit a cigar. "But what do you do withthose ships?"
"We ride the rings, that's what we do. Only A and B, of course. TheSaturnian Merrygoround, that's what we have here. Someone's a licensedpilot, I let him take a ship up himself. Otherwise I provide pilots."
"But is it safe?"
"You bet it's safe! And fun—it's terrific. The whole ring system isa hundred and seventy-one thousand miles across, a big merrygoround.Ten thousand miles of outer ring, sixteen thousand miles of brightring—all to play in. Billions of meteors, and all the tourists have todo is dodge 'em. Great fun."
"I don't want to be a stick in the mud, Mr. Smith, but, ah, whathappens if someone doesn't dodge?"
"Not a chance. How could anyone miss? The ring-particles shine byreflected sunlight—you