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.