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 Golden Planet, boots on the table, chair tilted back, one arm resting on the broad shoulder of Wocha, who sprawled on the floor beside him, the other hand clutching a tankard of ale. The tunic was open above his stained gray shirt, the battered cap was askew on his close-cropped blond hair, and his insignia--the stars of a captain and the silver leaves of an earl on Ansa--were tarnished. There was a deepening flush over 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 space bombardment, though its neighbors were rubble, but the tile roof was clumsily patched and there was oiled paper across the broken plastic of the windows. An anachronism, looming over the great bulldozer which was clearing the wreckage next door. The workmen there were mostly Ansans, big men in ragged clothes, but a well-dressed Terran was bossing the job. Donovan cursed wearily and lifted his tankard again. The long, smoky-raftered taproom was full--stolid burgers and peasants of Lanstead, discharged spacemen still in their worn uniforms, a couple of tailed greenies from the neighbor planet Shalmu. Talk was low and spiritless, and the smoke which drifted from pipes and cigarettes was bitter, cheap tobacco and dried bark. The smell of defeat was thick in the tavern. "May I sit here, sir? The other places are full." Donovan glanced up. It was a young fellow, peasant written over his sunburned face in spite of the gray uniform and the empty sleeve. Olman--yes, Sam Olman, whose family had been under Donovan fief these two hundred years. "Sure, make yourself at home." "Thank you, sir. I came in to get some supplies, thought I'd have a beer 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 a gas engine bad, sir, for the tractor. Now that the central powercaster is 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 be satisfied. Can't be done. We're trying to start a small factory of our own up at the manor, but it's slow work." "I'm sure if anyone can do anything it's you, sir."