RIDE THE CREPE RING

Mimas was a cold little world where the sun's rays seldom reached. You stayed under a big glassite dome on the four-hundred mile sphere if you stayed there at all, and you hardly saw the sun anyway because Saturn and its rings were so big and so bright.

The temperature under the dome was kept in the forties because Mimas was a summer resort, provided you wanted to travel three quarters of a billion miles to leave the heat and the bustle of the inferior planets behind you.

It was cold, but Mr. S. Smith sweated. The S. was for Socrates, but everyone called him Smitty. Now he looked at his visitor and the sweat formed little glistening beads on his forehead. The man was short and stout with a bald head and a florid face. He looked silly next to Socrates Smith because Socrates stood six and a half feet tall without his space-boots, and he could have been a Martian bone bird for all the flesh on his body.

"That's the size of it, Smith," the florid little man said. "We don't care if you are a billion miles from the sun—"

"Eight-hundred eighty-five million nine-hundred and sixty-three thousand seventy-two," Socrates said proudly. "The most distant pleasure-spot in the Solar System. Want to get away from it all? Come to Mimas, with Saturn's rings right in your backyard...."

"That's it. We've had enough monkey business. Government was sued because it sanctioned your artificial satellite above Jupiter's Red Spot. The Red Spot Palace—bah! More people complained of asthma—"

"I included spacesuits with each domette, Mr. Farquhart. How did I know somebody sold me an inferior product?"

Farquhart shook his head. "None of my business. All your customers went to Mars to get rid of their asthma. Mars boomed, then over-produced. We had deflation, and the whole tourist business went to pot for three years. Why don't you try something simple like a spa on one of the Venusian islands? I got a cousin—"

"Too crowded, too much competition. No, Mr. Farquhart, I have something different here. It'll make me a million. Then I can retire, buy me an estate 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 ten thousand people again?"

Socrates still sweated, but he was all business now. "Of course it's safe. All my ships are war-surplus two-man cruisers, all twenty of them. You trust the Space Navy, don't you?"

"Naturally, naturally." Farquhart lit a cigar. "But what do you do with those ships?"

"We ride the rings, that's what we do. Only A and B, of course. The Saturnian Merrygoround, that's what we have here. Someone's a licensed pilot, 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 is a hundred and seventy-one thousand miles across, a big merrygoround. Ten thousand miles of outer ring, sixteen thousand miles of bright ring—all to play in. Billions of meteors, and all the tourists have to do is dodge 'em. Great fun."

"I don't want to be a stick in the mud, Mr. Smith, but, ah, what happens if someone doesn't dodge?"

"Not a chance. How could anyone miss? The ring-particles shine by reflected sunlight—you can see each one clear as hell, and you just avoid 'em, that's all. We don't go near the third ring, the crepe ring—not that dark baby. That could be dangerous. You know, the innermost ring, only seven thousand miles from Saturn itself. That's dark as the inside of a Plutonian catacomb. I thought of a resort there at first, but it's too damned far—"

Farquhart stood up. "Well, I don't want to take any more of your time. Tell you what I'll do, Smith. I'll stick around three, four days, and watch some of your tourists. I'll be fair about the whole thing—if it's safe, excellent: if not—" He shrugged. "You got quarters for me, Smith?"

Socrates started to tell him of the wonderful accommodations, thought better of it, checked on a domette vacancy, and gave Farquhart his key. "I'll see you," the short fat man said.

Socrates mopped his brow.

"Can I come out now?"

Wearily, Socrates sat down. "Yes, come on. He's gone."

She was as tall for a girl as Socrates was for a man, and the long cascade of her golden hair didn't need sunlight to make it gleam. She was the prettiest thing in Mimas, and that included Socrates' glossy new domettes. But it was because of her that he perspired.

"Please go away," he said. "Grow up in someone else's tourist haven, Norma, like a good girl. If you hadn't decided to see what was in the sponge grottoes of Callisto I'd still have my business there. If you hadn't—"

"Bygones are bygones, Smitty. That's a good boy. But not quite. I see your good friend Percival Farquhart is back—"

"Is that what the P. stands for? Percival, hah-hah."

"I wouldn't talk, Socrates . I wouldn't talk at all."

"Okay, okay. But look—there's a liner for Ceres tonight. I'll buy you a ticket. The Interplanetary Fair—"

"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....

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.

Socrates switched on his radio. "Can you hear me, Mrs. Entwhistle?"

"Yes. Yes, I can. Better be careful, that's all I can say."

"Relax. We'll start now."

Mrs. Entwhistle was bulky in her vac suit, and two attendants had to help her through the narrow lock of the ship. After that Socrates saw to it that she was strapped securely into her seat, and her face looked peculiarly green under the lights of the instrument panel.

Socrates jumped outside to tell something to one of the attendants and he saw Farquhart there waiting for him.

"Hello, Smith. Nice day."

"Yeah. How's it coming? Your investigation, I mean."

"Surprisingly, fine. I'd say that if everything checks through with a clean bill of health today I'll be leaving on tomorrow morning's liner. If."

Perhaps Farquhart had not meant the if to sound so ominous, but it came out that way because Socrates immediately associated it with what Norma had said the night before. He smiled a bit weakly now and readjusted his helmet. Then he mumbled, "I'll see you on Ganymede in a few years," and he went back in through the lock.

They cruised at fifteen miles a second, and within an hour they were passing under the outer ring. Automatically he lowered their speed.

Mrs. Entwhistle craned her neck upward, and through the top of her glassite helmet her face looked like a fish underwater. "I thought we go in the ring, Mr. Smith."

He nodded. "Of course we do. We're a thousand miles out now. See? If you look carefully, you probably can see some of the bigger particles shining."

"Um, yes."

"But we don't go in here. This is the outer ring and we pass under it. We also go under Cassini's Division—the dark band which separates this from the inner ring. I'll take you there, through the brighter ring, up to the border of the crepe one. But then we turn back. That would be dangerous."

"Why?"

"Because the crepe ring receives no sunlight. It's dark, that's why, and we'd have to rely on radar to keep the ship out of trouble. It's tricky business and it's dangerous. A little light flashes on and off and it tells you which way to steer, but unless you can see what you're doing—like you can in the bright ring, it's dangerous."

In another few minutes Socrates cut the ship sharply upward, and before long the solid whiteness of the ring had been replaced by a chaos of flying rock. That's what it looked like—huge boulders, ton piled upon ton, and the closer they came, the faster the rocks seemed to move. In another moment the rocks were below as well as above them, and Mrs. Entwhistle screamed.

"What's the matter?"

"I'm afraid. Please, Mr. Smith—"

"You have nothing to worry about—"

"I can't help it if I'm afraid. Take me back!"

Socrates turned sharply and the ship zoomed through an empty space. The rear port showed only a massive rock; it had been that close.... "If you don't keep quiet. Please—"

"Take me back!"

Socrates had had a few cases like this, and taking the customer back was comparatively simple. Although this bright ring was the largest, and although it did have a longitudinal width of sixteen thousand miles, its latitudinal depth was no more than ten miles. Now he gunned the ship up and in a moment they hung poised in deep space above the ring. "We'll stay clear of the ring and go back to Mimas—"

"Why?"

"You were afraid. You said so, that's why."

"Well, I changed my mind. What would all the girls on Earth say if they knew I hadn't actually seen the ring? Take me back, Mr. Smith. I'll be brave."

Socrates smiled. "That's a good girl," he said, and they dove again for the brightness of the ring. But he almost wished she hadn't changed her mind. Then he could have returned to the spacefield and watched for Norma.

He cut a zigzag course through the hurtling meteors. Someone, he knew, had once bothered to chart all the tiny particles of the ring, but it had taken a lifetime and it was far from accurate. Socrates preferred the seat-of-the-pants method.

In less than two hours they had cut through the width of the ring and ahead was darkness—darker, it seemed, than space itself.

"A thousand miles of void, and then the crepe ring," Socrates explained. "We'll be turning back now. Fun, Mrs. Entwhistle?"

"Great," she agreed, but she had taken off the fishbowl helmet, and now she was mopping her brow. "I must try it again sometime. In a few years, of course—"

Socrates jammed down on the rocket pedal and the fore-tubes blasted their fire against the blackness. The little ship shuddered and Mrs. Entwhistle emitted a sound which could have been the shrill shriek of a tea kettle. Then Socrates turned them slowly in a great arc so as not to harm the delicate two-hundred pound creature sitting by his side with too much acceleration.

Something flashed by beneath them. It could have been a meteor, except that this was a void area. Attraction of the planet Mimas, and the other satellites were such that no meteoric material could exist in this space—which explained the thousand mile separation of the crepe ring.

Yet something had passed them, something shining brilliantly with reflected sunlight.

A ship! It could have been nothing but a spaceship.... Socrates knew he had the only ships in the area, but the crepe ring was out of bounds. The strange ship had been gunning for it at ten per—

Socrates barked into his radio:

"Hello, hello! Who's out here?"

The voice mocked him. "Who do you think?"

He didn't have to think at all, but he felt like crying. It was Norma. "I thought you'd tell me when you went!"

"I tried to, honest. But you weren't on Mimas, Smitty. So I took off. But don't worry. I've already been through the bright ring. Pretty nice setup, Smitty."

"I'm glad you like it. But you're heading in the wrong direction now." Ahead of them was the darkness which obscured part of Saturn's huge bulk—the darkness of the uncharted and mysterious crepe ring.

"What do you mean? Isn't this the way to the dark ring?"

"That's just it. Mimas is the other way."

"Oh, pooh. You go back to Mimas with your ship if you want. I'd rather see the inside of that dark ring. I'll say hello tonight, Smitty. Have a good trip back with Mrs. Entwhistle—I checked the tourist log."

Socrates called "Wait" into his radio at least a dozen times, but there was no answer.

Mrs. Entwhistle said, "Why is that crazy woman going into the crepe ring?"

Socrates sighed. If Norma got hurt now, his entire venture out here would be ruined. Farquhart would see to that. Besides, quite suddenly, he did not want Norma to get hurt. Not at all. Not ever. Maybe he was crazy—but he liked the girl.

"What," he demanded of Mrs. Entwhistle, "is wrong with the crepe ring?"

"Now, that's a silly question. You told me yourself it was dangerous. No one can see anything or some such thing—"

"Ha, ha, ha. I was joking. Good joke—but it's the best part of the trip. In fact, the trip is incomplete without it. I've saved it for last."

"So why are you trembling, Mr. Smith?"

"Nothing. It's nothing at all. Just get back into your helmet and I'll show you what the inside of the crepe ring is like. Go ahead, Mrs. Entwhistle. It isn't everyone who gets a chance to see the inside of the crepe ring...."

The darkness of space was pleasant by comparison. Here there were vague flitting shadows, the half-seen images of huge masses of rock and metal hurtling through space in their eternal revolution around Saturn. One would be more than enough to crush their little ship—and Norma's....

Socrates hardly had time to think of it, hardly had time to hear Mrs. Entwhistle whimpering with each sudden burst of acceleration. On and off overhead the red and the green lights winked, and Socrates played on the firing pedals like an organist, trying to blast their way clear of the unseen rocks all about them. Once a yellow light winked and he knew that one of the meteoric pebbles had streaked through their ship: it now was an airless place, and only their flimsy spacesuits stood between them and the cold, beckoning void of space.

Someone was shouting, and at first he thought it was Mrs. Entwhistle....

Norma!

"Hey, Smitty!"

"Yes. Yes, Norma."

"I can see you back there. See me?"

"Ahead a bit? Yeah, I see you." Her ship flashed once and then was gone in the obscuring darkness, but it flashed again, and this time he probed out with a beam of radar and he held it.

"I'm glad you see me, Smitty, because I think you'll have to come and get me. I'm scared. My ship's a mess, gutted with holes. This place is—awful."

Socrates muttered to himself and pushed the aft pedals to the floor. Mrs. Entwhistle was slammed back in her seat and Socrates could see that she was trying to scream, only she couldn't quite make it.

Only the green light flashed now, because the red-warning signal remained bright: it lit the way to Norma. A score of miles, but their zigzag course would make it more like several hundred—if they got there. Socrates' insides began to hurt from the acceleration. His feet were numb from working the pedals. Green light, step down, right, left, again, green, aft pedal, aft pedal!... Socrates soon realized that he was talking to himself.

Joining air locks in space was at best a ticklish business, but with the added hazard of the meteors, Socrates did not know if it could be done. He only knew one thing. It had to be done. Norma's ship could have been a derelict for all the activity it showed, and while it had been pelted thus far only with smaller stones, one big rock would be more than enough to prove fatal.

They crept forward slowly, it seemed, inches at a time—and three times he had almost locked the two ships together, but at the last moment he had to swing away. The action would force the other ship back as well, and a massive chunk of cosmic debris would zoom through the void between them. Close....

He locked them together finally, and then, vaguely, he remembered running for the airlock. He found it, pulled the catch and opened Norma's lock from the outside. He stood for a moment within her ship.

She was slumped over the pilot chair in her spacesuit. He ran to her and lifted her across his shoulder, heading back for the lock. Then he was through it and Norma sat on the floor, partly conscious, in his own ship. He ran forward to the controls, pushing aside Mrs. Entwhistle—who had fallen across both chairs, breaking her strap in the process.

He fired all the aft rockets at once, blasting straight up towards the top of the ring.

In seconds they were clear, but not before he had seen a huge, almost spherical meteor grind into and through Norma's ship....

Both women were conscious when they reached the spaceport. Socrates smiled at Mrs. Entwhistle.

"Yes sir, you're a lucky young lady."

"Lucky? I feel almost dead."

"Ridiculous! You were the only tourist ever taken through that ring, the crepe ring. You'll be famous. Wait until you tell all your friends. I only took you because you seemed so obviously brave...."

"Go ahead," Norma chided, "pile it on, pile it on—"

Socrates told her, in his severest tones, that he'd get to her later. After that, he was busy bringing the little ship down on Mimas' one spacefield.

Mr. Entwhistle and Farquhart met them when they landed. The smaller, thinner man seemed worried, but now he took his wife's hand and asked her, "How did you like it?"

Socrates waited breathlessly. If Farquhart found out....

"I loved it!" Mrs. Entwhistle fairly shrieked. "Wait until you hear, Arnold—and wait until we get back to Earth. We'll leave at once, on tomorrow's liner. After I tell Aunt Sophie—"

"See?" Socrates turned to Farquhart.

"Um, I must admit it looks good this time, Smith. What about you, Miss?"

Norma grinned. "I had quite a time, quite a time. My ship—"

Socrates kissed her soundly on the lips, and whatever else she might have said was lost in the hurried smacking sound.

Farquhart cleared his throat. "I never knew you took two passengers up at once, Smith. And I didn't see her before—"

"She's here, isn't she?"

"Umm—"

"You never know what we'll do here on Mimas...."

"Umm, well—I guess you're in order this time, Smith. Good luck."

Norma said, "My ship—"

Socrates kissed her again. Then he said. "If you don't shut up I think I'll have to marry you. That's exactly what I'll have to do...."

Norma's eyes glowed at him. "As I was saying, darling, our ship...."

This time she was kissing him.