The Chief Steward, rustling in starched whites, stepped forward at the port, clicked his heels, and curved his thin lips into a smile.
"How do you do, sir. The Star Line wishes you a happy voyage. Will you be kind enough to choose?"
Following his nod, Alan looked down at the silver tray extended for his inspection, and then stepped back as a heavy perfume assaulted his nostrils.
"What are those?"
"Carnations, sir, for the gentlemen's coats, and rose corsages for the ladies' gowns. Compliments of the Star Line."
"But they're white!"
"Yes, sir. The white flowers, the only kind we are able to grow in Y-port, are symbols of the white light of the stars, we like to think."
"What idiot gave the Star Line that idea?" said Dr. Chase. "You know stars are all colors—white, green, yellow, blue, and even red. But white carnations are a symbol of death."
Steward Davis lowered his tray. "Then you don't care to wear one, sir?"
"Not until I have to," said Alan. "Now please call some one to show me my cabin."