Lane Fleming was a prominent collector of antique firearms. One night when he was working in his gunroom on a new acquisition, a shot rang out and he was found dead on the floor. The coroner somewhat hastily ruled that the death was an accident; more sober heads assumed it was suicide, but that the truth was hushed up for fear of scuppering a major takeover deal involving Fleming's company.
Technological upheavals caused by inventions of our own are bad enough, but this was the ultimate depression, caused by the ultimate alien invention--which no Earthman ever saw!
He was tired of people--a "human interest" columnist, who specializes in glamorizations of the commonplace and sordid is likely to get that way. So. this starship seemed to offer the ideal escape from it all
"It's well established now that the way you put a question often determines not only the answer you'll get, but the type of answer possible. So. a mechanical answerer, geared to produce the ultimate revelations in reference to anything you want to know, might have unsuspected limitations."
Hudson lay in his sleeping bag, staring at the sky. It bothered him a lot. There was not one familiar constellation, not one star that he could name with any certainty. This juggling of the stars, he thought, emphasized more than anything else in this ancient land the vast gulf of years which lay between him and the Earth where he had been-or would be-born.