One of the taverns near the western airlock was named the _Stardust_, and I was approaching, measuring the sand in my throat, when these spacers came out. The first one in sight was a blocky, dark-haired fellow. He came rolling through the door with a man under each arm. Just as I got there, he made it to his feet somehow and cracked their heads together exactly hard enough to bring peace. He acted like a man used to handling things with precision. He glanced quickly at me out of a square, serious face, then plunged back through the splintered door toward the breakup inside. * * * * * In a moment, he came out again, with two friends who looked the worse for wear. The tall, lean youngster wore a junior pilot's bands on the sleeves of his blue uniform. His untidy hair was rumpled, as if someone had been hanging onto it while in the process of giving him the shiner. The other one was shorter and a good deal neater. Even with his tunic ripped down the front, he gave the impression of making it his life business to be neat. He was turning gray at the temples and growing a little bulge under his belt, which lent a dignity worthy of his trim mustache and expression of deferential politeness. He paused briefly to hurl an empty bottle at someone's head. "Better take the alley there," I told the blocky one, on impulse. "It'll bring you out at the tractor lot and I'll give you a lift to your ship." He wasted no time on questions, just grabbed his friends and disappeared before the crowd came out. I walked around a couple of corners and back to my tractor bus. This lot was only a clear space inside the Number Four Airlock. At that time, two or three tractors came in every day from the mines or other domes. Most of the traffic was to and from the spaceport. "Who's that?" asked a low voice from the shadows. "Tony Lewis," I answered. The three of them moved into the dim light from the airlock guardpost. "Thanks for the steer," said the blocky one, "but we can stay till morning." He seemed as fresh as if he had just landed. His friends were a trifle worn around the edges. "Keep playing that rough," I said, "and you may not make it to morning." He just grinned. "We have to," he said, "or the ship can't blast off." "Oh, you three make the ship go, huh?" "Just about. This is Hugh Konnel, the third pilot; the gent with the dignified air is Ron Meadows, the steward. I'm Jim Howlet, and I look after the fuel system." I admitted that the ship could hardly do without them. Howlet's expression suggested that he was searching his memory. "Lewis ..." he murmured. "I've heard of Tony Lewis somewhere. You a spacer?" "Used to be," I told him. "Did some piloting in the Belt." Young Konnel stopped fingering his eye. "Oh, I've heard of you," he said. "Even had to read some of your reports." * * * * *