yachts

was a sprinkling of dainty, badly slashed yachts and other personal space craft. No wonder they’d been mistaken for the murdered cold hulks of the centuries, swept along in a current of awful new life—!
But the worst of it was that, mixed up with that stream, was stuff which simply didn’t belong in space—it should have been gliding sedately over the surface of some planetary sea! Some, by Old Webolt, had wings!
And that one, there!
“It’s a house!” the Metag howled, in horrified recognition. “A thundering, Old-Webolt-damned HOUSE!”
House and all, the battered ghost-horde came flashing up at a pace that couldn’t have been matched by Cushgar’s newest destroyers. Ponderously and enormously, the Glant raced forward in what was, even now, an obviously t