Mezzerow Loves Company
By F. L. WALLACE
Illustrated by EMSH
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science FictionJune 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The official took their passports, scanning the immense variety ofstamps he had to choose from. He selected one with multicolored ink thatsuited his fancy and smeared it against the small square of plastic.
"Marcus Mezzerow?" he asked, glancing at the older man and back at thepassport. His lips quivered with amusement at what was printed there."There seems to be a mistake in the name of the planet," he said. "It'shard to believe they'd call it Messy Row."
"There is a mistake," said Marcus heavily. "However, there's nothing youcan do about it. It's listed as Messy Row on the charts."
The official's face twitched and he bent over the other passport. He wasslow in stamping it. "Wilbur Mezzerow?" he asked the young man.
"That's me," said Wilbur. "Isn't it a terrible thing to do? You'd almostthink people on Earth can't spell—or maybe they don't listen. That'swhy Pa and me are here."
"Wilbur, this man is not responsible for our misfortune," said Marcus."Neither can he correct it. Don't bore him with our problems."
"Well, sure."
"Come on."
"Welcome to Earth," said the official as they walked away. He caughtsight of a woman coming toward him and cringed inwardly before herecognized that she, too, had just arrived from one of the outer worlds.He could tell because of the absence of the identifying gleam in hereyes. On principle he'd stamp her passport with dull and dingy ink.
Wilbur scuffled along beside his father. He hadn't attained his fullgrowth, but he was as tall though not as heavy as Marcus. "Where are wegoing now?" he asked. "Get the name changed?"
"Don't gawk," said Marcus, restraining his own tendency to gaze aroundin bewilderment. Things had changed since his father had been here. "No,we're not. It's simple, but it may take longer than we think. We have toact as if Earth is an unfriendly planet."
"Hardly seems like a planet."
"It is. If you scratch deep enough under those buildings, you'll findsoil and rock." Even Marcus didn't know how deep that scratch would haveto be.
"Seems hard to believe it was once like—uh—Mezzerow." Wilbur waslooking at the buildings and pedestrians streaming past and the littleflutter cars that filled the air. "Bet you can't find any place to bealone in."
"More people are alone within ten miles of us than you have ever seen,"said Marcus. He stopped in front of a building and consulted a smallnotebook. The address agreed, but he looked in vain for a name. Therewasn't a name on any of the buildings. Nevertheless, this ought to beit. They'd been walking for miles and he had checked all the streets. Hespoke to Wilbur and they went inside.
It was a hotel. The Universe over, there is no mistaking a hotel foranything else. Continuous arrivals and departures stamp it with peculiarimpermanency. A person might stay twenty years and yet seem as transientas the man still signing the registry.
A clerk sauntered over to the Mezzerows. He was plump, but the shouldersof hi