"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?"