amned impressive, and
explain it by libration of the satellite.

The mechanics of realistically moving Saturn was rougher than a cob. And
that's where the opposition fixed us. They claimed there wasn't enough
drama in the tour. Let it end with a flash of light, a roar, and a
meteor striking nearby.

The roar came from us. Mimas had no atmosphere--how could the meteor
sound off or burn up? We finally compromised, permitting the meteor to
hit.

We'd decided early the customers couldn't walk through. Mel first,
Harry, then Dex, together produced an electric-powered, open runabout.
The cart ran on treads in contact with skillfully hidden tracks, for the
current channel. A futuristic touch, that--we'd say the cart ran on
broadcast power.

The power source provided cart headlights, and made batteries
unnecessary for the guide's walkie-talkie and the customers' helmet
receivers.

Mimas' last section of track was on a vibrating platform. The cart
tripped a switch; when the meteor supposedly hit, the platform would
drop and rise three inches, fast, twisting while it did--"enough," Mel
said grimly, "to shake the damned _kishkas_ out of 'em!"

We cracked that one, just in time for another. It began with Venus, as
most of my problems had. We planned constant dust storms for Venus. Real
quick, there'd be nothing left of the Bonestell's backgrounds but a
blank wall, from mechanical erosion.

And how did we intend--?

Glass--

Too easily scratched. Lord, another one: how will the half-a-buck
customers be able to see inside?

Glass and one of those silicon plastics?

Better, but--

Harry beat it: glass, plastic, _and_ a boundary layer of cold air,
jetted down from the ceiling, in front of the background painting and
back of the look-in window. I was glad, for lately, Harry had begun to
age. Thin and gray, he showed the strain--as did all of us.

* * * * *

We were sitting in an administration office at the park. I now
recognized the symptoms; when the GG had no real problems, its
collective mind usually turned to my health. I wouldn't admit it, but I
felt a little peaked. Little? Hell, bone-tired, dog-weary pooped. Seemed
every motion was effort, but soon it would end.

The phone rang. With the message, it _was_ ended.

"Let's go, grouseketeers."

There was almost a pregnant pause. Six months: conception of the idea to
delivery of finished product; six months, working together, fig