Inside the ship all is calm, save for the excited conversation of fellow passengers. Your cabin steward is waiting to welcome you, to show you your stateroom and answer questions—sailing time, lunch arrangements, etc., etc. The decor of the cabin holds your attention for a moment, and the sophistication of the bathroom too. Every cabin in this part of the ship is different, each one designed by an artist in interior decoration, each one having its own individuality.

Out on deck the general excitement is mounting as passengers explore the ship, discovering new delights. Last minute conversations are being held with friends who will shortly have to leave and return to their humdrum lives ashore. On the Sun Deck, the rail is lined with people looking down nearly a hundred feet to the quay below where preparations are being made for departure, some of the baggage gangways having already been removed.

Finally, over the loudspeakers comes the awaited message—"All ashore who are going ashore!" and a thrill of excitement passes through each and every passenger. The voyage is about to begin...

For the third time in twenty minutes, a passenger stopped him and asked the same old question—

"Fog? Yes, we often get a little fog about here at this time of year. It is where the cold waters of the St. Lawrence meet the warmer waters of the Gulf Stream, you know. No, there's no danger really; you see, we know the exact position of every ship within a hundred miles, and besides, our siren can be heard a very long way away. Icebergs? No, it is a little too early in the year to meet any of them".

The passenger thanked him and moved on. No, there was no danger really, but all the same it was nasty stuff, this fog, and the ship seemed to be moving in a dead world. There was an eerie quiet in the air, except for the inevitable creaking of woodwork as the ship did her lazy roll, and the sibilant whispering of the sea against her sides. And of course, the fog siren which boomed out every minute its insistent warning, a dull-throated roar that was immediately swallowed by the fog. And inbetween each blast, the ship seemed to be listening; listening and straining to catch the slightest sound. The passengers always sensed this too and spoke quietly, staring anxiously into the gloom as they listened.