Sargasso of Lost Starships
By POUL ANDERSON
Far out in limitless space, Valduma, queen of the
voluptuous half-life, plied her deadly trade ... a
Lorelei of the black void, beckoning adventurous spacemen
to death and destruction with her beautiful siren lure.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories January 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Basil Donovan was drunk again. He sat near the open door of the GoldenPlanet, boots on the table, chair tilted back, one arm resting on thebroad shoulder of Wocha, who sprawled on the floor beside him, theother hand clutching a tankard of ale. The tunic was open above hisstained gray shirt, the battered cap was askew on his close-croppedblond hair, and his insignia—the stars of a captain and the silverleaves of an earl on Ansa—were tarnished. There was a deepening flushover his pale gaunt cheeks, and his eyes smoldered with an old rage.
Looking out across the cobbled street, he could see one of the tall,half-timbered houses of Lanstead. It had somehow survived the spacebombardment, though its neighbors were rubble, but the tile roof wasclumsily patched and there was oiled paper across the broken plastic ofthe windows. An anachronism, looming over the great bulldozer which wasclearing the wreckage next door. The workmen there were mostly Ansans,big men in ragged clothes, but a well-dressed Terran was bossing thejob. Donovan cursed wearily and lifted his tankard again.
The long, smoky-raftered taproom was full—stolid burgers and peasantsof Lanstead, discharged spacemen still in their worn uniforms, a coupleof tailed greenies from the neighbor planet Shalmu. Talk was low andspiritless, and the smoke which drifted from pipes and cigarettes wasbitter, cheap tobacco and dried bark. The smell of defeat was thick inthe tavern.
"May I sit here, sir? The other places are full."
Donovan glanced up. It was a young fellow, peasant written over hissunburned face in spite of the gray uniform and the empty sleeve.Olman—yes, Sam Olman, whose family had been under Donovan fief thesetwo hundred years. "Sure, make yourself at home."
"Thank you, sir. I came in to get some supplies, thought I'd have abeer too. But you can't get anything these days. Not to be had."
Sam's face looked vaguely hopeful as he eyed the noble. "We do need agas engine bad, sir, for the tractor. Now that the central powercasteris gone, we got to have our own engines. I don't want to presume, sir,but—"
Donovan lifted one corner of his mouth in a tired smile. "I'm sorry,"he said. "If I could get one machine for the whole community I'd besatisfied. Can't be done. We're trying to start a small factory of ourown up at the manor, but it's slow work."
"I'm sure if anyone can do anything it's you, sir."
Donovan looked quizzically at the open countenance across the table."Sam," he asked, "why do you people keep turning to the Family? We ledyou, and it was to defeat. Why do you want anything more to do withnobles? We're not even that, any longer. We've been stripped of ourtitles. We're just plain citizens of the Empire now like you, and thenew rulers are Terran. Why do you still think of us as your leaders?"
"But you are, sir! You've always been. It wasn't the king's fault, orhis men's, that Terra had so much more'n we did. We gave 'em a fightthey won't forget in a hurry!"
"You were in my squadron, weren't you?"
"Yes, sir. CPO on the Ansa Lancer. I was with yo