 Why was Billy-boy stopped as he was walking into the main lounge?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1944. ] I was killing an hour in the billiard room of the Spacemen's Club in Swamp City when the Venusian bellboy came and tapped me on the shoulder. "Beg pardon, thir," he said with his racial lisp, "thereth thome one to thee you in the main lounge." The Spacemen's was a sanctuary, a rest club where in-coming pilots and crewmen could relax before leaving for another voyage. The rule that no females could pass its portals was strictly enforced. I followed the bellhop down the long corridor that led to the main lounge. There she stood before a frantically gesticulating desk clerk, leaning on her faded green umbrella. Her high-topped button shoes were planted firmly on the varpla carpet and her wrinkled face was set in calm defiance. "Hi, Billy-boy," she greeted calmly. "Mithter Trenwith, if thith lady ith a friend of yourth, you'll have to take her away. In the grille an equally astonished waiter served us—me a lime rickey and Grannie Annie her usual whisky sour—I waited until she had tossed the drink off at a gulp before I set off a chain of questions: "What the devil are you doing on Venus? Pure fiddle-faddle, that's what they are. To her publishers and her readers she might be Annabella C. Flowers, author of a long list of science fiction novels. Her annual income totaled into six figures, and her publishers sat back and massaged their digits, watching their earnings mount. If Annabella C. Flowers wrote a novel, and the locale was the desert of Mars, she packed her carpet bag and hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between two expeditions on Callisto, she went to Callisto. Grannie spilled a few shreds of Martian tobacco onto a paper and deftly rolled herself a cigarette. Before I realized it, I was following her through the lounge and out to the jetty front. Grannie Annie hailed a hydrocar. A theater to the grizzled colonials on this side of the planet meant a shack on stilts over the muck, zilcon wood seats and dingy atobide lamps. But the place was packed with miners, freight-crew-men—all the tide and wash of humanity that made Swamp City the frontier post it is. It read: ONE NIGHT ONLY DOCTOR UNIVERSE AND HIS NINE GENIUSES THE QUESTION PROGRAM OF THE SYSTEM As we strode down the aisle a mangy-looking Venusian began to pound a tinpan piano in the pit.
 He was informed that he had a visitor
 He was not welcome in the club, per recent events.  He was no longer a pilot and had to return to the gate.  The pilots and crew-men were requested to all meet before entering  He was informed that he had a visitor