So Irinia knew he wouldn't be satisfied with anything less, and she went busily about the procedure of lining up the polyglot crew for the ring-shooting.
At fifty million miles from Saturn she fired two small braking blasts, and Trase cried out from his bunk and was sick again. She ran back to him and said, "Oh, Trase, let me drug you till we get there."
His white suffering face showed clenched teeth. He grabbed her arm and said, "I'll make it, Irinia, I'll make it. Just let me know when the view gets good."
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."