"Oh, just a moment, M3--Garth listening I hope--here's a tip for you. As you probably know, J. P. Chiswell is among those still missing in that life-boat. If you two can locate that party, who knows--it may mean unconditional pardon for _both_ of you! End of message." There came the hint of an amused chuckle before the tube went dead. Garth's face was grim. J. P. Chiswell, President of EMV Lines! Unconditional pardon. Yes, for Prokle, perhaps, if they were lucky, but never for him, and that rat of a Martian sender knew it. Garth, in the early days, had been a source of considerable annoyance in the spaceways, and he was now serving forty years. The longest sentence in the entire history of the Salvage Stations. * * * * * Garth arose and clicked on the light in the little cubicle. He crossed over and shook Prokle, grinning in anticipation of the grumbling protest he knew his partner would make. "Message just came through," Garth said. "Sounds urgent." "Go to sleep you damn idiot, and let me," Prokle mumbled. "I was just dreaming I was back in Chicago." Prokle only lived for the time when he'd get back to Chicago, and Garth knew he never would. So did Prokle. Garth grinned broader and shook his partner harder. "Come on, snap out of it. This is important, I tell you." Prokle rolled over, half opened one eye and muttered, "Nothing's more important than sleep, out here. Hell, can't it wait 'til tomorrow--" "I'll let you be the judge of that," Garth said with calm emphasis. "It's an uncharted swarm." The effect was electric. Instantly Prokle was awake and on his feet, fumbling with his space equipment, no more questions asked. Garth smiled to himself, and moved over to his own equipment. He had been out here a long time and had often seen the effect of those magical words, "uncharted swarm." But never had he known them to work in quite the way they did on Prokle. _Uncharted swarm!_ To men such as they, that meant much--or it meant nothing. But above all things it meant a _chance_, and eternal hope. It had all begun twenty years ago when the group of four men over on Station J5 had found gold on one of the uncharted asteroid swarms. They had pledged secrecy and worked it the smart way, leaving the swarm unreported. They had mined the gold until the rocks sped too far away in their orbit for them to venture out in safety; but they had obtained enough to buy off the duration of their penal terms, and had gone back to Earth very rich men. Some years later Malcolm and Schroeder, on M1, had made a similar strike, but platinum. They worked it the same secret way. Malcolm had died, and there were rumors his partner had murdered him. Schroeder, through the obvious channels, had bought off his remaining sentence. Through the years there were other such rumors, and "uncharted swarm" had become magic words to all Salvage Station men. Secrecy, jealousy, hope continued to prevail.