He awakened with a start. On this morning there was no welcome aroma of coffee. At first he thought perhaps he was too early. But it was time. Portia was probably so excited she was all off schedule.

Clifton was careful on this morning. He took his bath, toweled himself until his skin tingled, used his deodorant sparingly, gave himself a close shave. The part in his hair was never straighter.

Dressing himself in a clean, pressed suit, he strolled from his bedroom. Portia was not in the kitchen. He walked to her bedroom. The bed had been made. But no Portia.

Where the devil had she gone?

He started walking about the ship, searching first here and then there. Of course not in stereo. Not on this day. Massage? No. Bath? Not there. Tape? Same.

She was nowhere to be found. Then he recalled the funny look in her face the previous night. It meant something.

Suicide? Frantic now, he went to both waste chutes. Neither gave evidence of having been opened. Still....

An hour later he returned, a bewildered and disconsolate man, to his office.

Portia was there.

With her was a man.

He was George Hedstrom.

Clifton could only sink back against the wall and look at the two of them, the Portia he had never seen so radiant, George, a dark, handsome fellow who wore a quizzical look. Clifton was shocked to see they were holding hands.

"Captain," George said in a friendly way, rising his full six feet, "Portia tells me—"

"I'm sorry, Cliff," Portia interrupted hastily. "George is my fiance. We were to be married on Ostarpa, but as long as you—"

Tomorrow, she had said....

The two figures blurred before him, the room reeled and Clifton clutched the doorway for support. Karen, Karen! I've been bewitched.... This girl—I thought she was you.... I should have known....

"Let me help you."

Clifton struck out at the dark head of hair, hit it somewhere.

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