"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."