Glancing at Alan's bent head, Professor Larrabee abruptly banged shut the lid of his empty suitcase and shoved it into the conveyor port in the wall to shoot it down to Luggage. Then he straightened up and rumpled his white hair. "That's done, young man. Will you join me in the Bar for a spacecap?" "Sorry, sir. I'm very tired. I just want to rest and be quiet." "But a frothed whiskey would help you to relax. Come along, and let me buy you a final drink before we take off for eternity." Alan noticed with distaste the white carnation in the coat lapel of his companion. "I hardly like to think of this trip as being synonymous with eternity," he said. "You sound as though you didn't expect to come back." "Do I? Perhaps I made an unfortunate choice of words. But do you believe in premonitions, Dr. Chase?" "No. All premonitions stem from indigestion." "No doubt you are right. But from the moment of boarding this ship I have been haunted by the memory of an extremely vivid story I once read." "What kind of a story?" "Oh, it was a scientific romance, one of those impossible flights of fancy they used to publish in my boyhood, about the marvels of future science. This was in the days before we had got outside the solar system, but I still remember the tale, for it was about a spaceship which was wrecked on its first voyage." "But there've been hundreds of other such stories! Why should this particular one be bothering you now?" "Well, you see," said the professor apologetically, "it's because of the name. The coincidence of names. This other ship, the one in the story--it was called the _Star Lord_." "I wouldn't let that worry me. Surely it's a logical name for a spaceship?" Professor Larrabee laughed. "Logical, and perhaps a trifle presumptuous. But I'm sure it's a meaningless coincidence, my boy. Now how about that drink?" Alan shook his head. "Come, Dr. Chase. Allow me the liberties of an old man. You're obviously ill, you want to crawl into a hole and pull the hole in after you, and enjoy the deadly luxury of feeling sorry for yourself. But we can't do that sort of thing. Let me prescribe for you." With an effort, Alan smiled. "All right, Professor. I usually do the prescribing myself, but right now I'm too tired to argue. I'll accept a spacecap with pleasure." He swallowed a panedol tablet to ease his pain, then pulled himself up. "That's the spirit, my boy! We will drink to the _Star Lord_, that she may have a happier fate than her namesake." * * * * * Five minutes before takeoff. The first signal had sounded. The Bar was closed by now, the lounges deserted, and in theory the twelve hundred and fifty passengers were secure in their cabins, waiting for the instantaneous jump into hyperspace. At the port, Chief Steward Davis leaned against the wall with his tray of wilting flowers, while the Second Officer and two crewmen stood by, waiting for the final signal to close the port.