"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?"