The sky turned purple. It went black with specks of star-shine in it. Hoddan swung to a westward course and continued to rise, watching the star images as they shifted on the screens. The image of the sun, of course, was automatically diminished so that it was not dazzling. The rockets continued to roar, though in a minor fashion because there was no longer air outside in which a bellow could develop.

Hoddan painstakingly made use of those rule-of-thumb methods of astrogation which his piratical fathers had developed and which a boy on Zan absorbed without being aware. He wanted an orbit around Darth. He didn’t want to take time to try to compute it. So he watched the star-images ahead and astern. If the stars ahead rose above the planet’s edge faster than those behind sank down below it, he would lie climbing. If the stars behind sank down faster than those ahead rose up, he would be descending. If all the stars rose equally he’d be moving straight down. It was not a complex method, and it worked.

Presently he relaxed. He sped swiftly toward the sunrise line on Darth. This was the reverse of a normal orbit, but it was the direction followed by the ships up here. He hoped his orbit was lower than theirs. If it was, he’d overtake them from behind. If he were higher, they’d overtake him.

He turned on the spacephone. Its reception indicator was piously placed at ground. He shifted it to space, so that it would pick up calls going planetward, instead of listening vainly for replies from the non-operative landing-grid.

Instantly voices boomed in his ears. Many voices. An impossibly large number of voices. Many, many, many more than nine transmitters were in operation now!

“Idiot!” said a voice in quiet passion, “sheer off or you’ll get in our drive-field!” A high-pitched voice said, ” — and group two take second orbit position.” Somebody bellowed, “But why don’t they answer?” And another voice still, said formally,. “Reporting group five, but four ships are staying behind with tanker, Toya, which is having stabilizer trouble.”

Hoddan’s eyes opened very wide. He turned down the sound while he tried to think. But there wasn’t anything to think. He’d come aloft to scout three ships that had turned to nine, because he was in such a fix on Darth that anything strange might be changed into something useful. But this was more than nine ships — itself an impossibly large space-fleet. There was no reason why ships of space should ever travel together. There were innumerable reasons why they shouldn’t. There was a limit to the number of ships that could be accommodated at any spaceport in the galaxy. There was no point, no profit, no purpose in a number of ships traveling together.

Darth’s sunrise-line appeared far ahead. The lifeboat would soon cease to be a bright light in the sky, now. The sun’s image vanished from the rear screens. The boat went hurtling onward through the blackness of the planet’s shadow while voices squabbled, wrangled, and formally reported.

During the period of darkness, Hoddan racked his brains for the vaguest of ideas on why so many ships should appear about an obscure and unimportant world like Darth. Presently the sunset-line appeared ahead, and far away he saw moving lights which were the hulls of the volubly communicating vessels. He stared, blankly. There were tens. Scores. He was forced to guess at the stark impossibility of more than a hundred spacecraft in view. As the boat rushed onward he had to raise the guess. It couldn’t be, but -

He turned on the outside telescope, and the image on its screen was more incredible than the voices and the existence of the fleet itself. The scope focused first on a bulging, monster. It was an antiquated freighter that had not been built for a hundred years. The second view was of a passenger-liner with the elaborate ornamentation that in past generations was considered suitable for space. There was a bulk-cargo ship, with no emergency rockets at all and the crew’s quarters in long blisters built outside the gigantic tank which was the ship itself. There was a needle-like spaceyacht. More freighters, with streaks of rust on their sides where they had lain aground for tens of years.

The fleet was an anomaly, and each of its component parts was a separate freak. It was a gathering together of all the outmoded and obsolete hulks and monstrosities of space. One would have to scavenge half the galaxy to bring together so many crazy, over-age derelicts that should have been in junk yards.

Then Hoddan drew an explosive deep breath. It was suddenly clear what the fleet was and what its reason must be. Why it stopped here, he could not yet guess.

Hoddan watched absorbedly. There was some emergency. It could be in the line of what an electronic engineer could handle.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE SPACEBOAT floated on upon a collision course with the arriving fleet. That would not mean, of course, actual contact with any of the strange vessels themselves. Crowded as the sunlit specks might seem from Darth’s night-side shadow, they were sufficiently separated. It was more than likely that even with ten-mile intervals the ships would be considered much too crowded. But they came pouring out of emptiness to go into a swirling, plainly pre-intended orbit about the planet from which Hoddan had risen less than an hour before.

It was a gigantic traffic tangle, and Hoddan’s boat drifted toward and into it. He’d counted a hundred ships long before he gave up, he’d numbered two hundred forty-seven of the oddities swarming to make a whirling band — a ring-around the planet Darth.

He was fairly sure that he knew what they were, now. But he could not possibly guess where they came from. And most mysterious of all was the question of why they’d come out of faster-than-light drive to make of themselves a celestial feature about a planet which had practically nothing to offer to anybody.

Presently the spaceboat was in the very thick of the fleet. His communicator spouted voices whose tones ranged from basso profundo to high tenor, and whose ideas of proper astrogation seemed to vary more widely still.

“You there!” boomed a voice with deafening volume. “You’re in our clear-space! Sheer off!”

The volume of a signal in space varies as the square of the distance. This voice was thunderous. It came apparently from a nearby, potbellied ship of ancient vintage.

Hoddan’s spaceboat floated on. The relative position of the two ships changed slowly. Another voice said indignantly:

“That’s the same thing that missed us by less than a mile! You, there! Stop acting like a squig! Get on your own course!”

A third voice:

“What boat’s that? I don’t recognize it! I thought I knew all the freaks in this fleet, too!”

A fourth voice said sharply:

“That’s not one of us! Look at the design! That’s not us!”

Other voices broke in. There was babbling. Then a harsh voice roared:

“Quiet! I order it!” There was silence. The harsh voice said heavily, “Relay the image to me.” There was a pause. The same voice said grimly: “It is not of our fleet. You, stranger! Identify yourself! Who are you and why did you slip secretly among us?”

Hoddan pushed the transmit button.

“My name is Bron Hoddan,” he said. “I came up to find out why three ships, and then nine ships, went into orbit around Darth. It was somewhat alarming. Our landing-grid’s disabled, anyhow, and it seemed wisest to look you over before we communicated and possibly told you something you might not believe.” The harsh voice said as grimly as before:”

“You come from the planet below us? Darth? Why is your ship so small? The smallest of ours is greater.”

“This is a lifeboat,” said Hoddan pleasantly. “It’s supposed to be carried on larger ships in case of emergency.”