Doctor Universe

Grannie Annie, who wrote science fiction under the nom de plume of Annabella C. Flowers, had stumbled onto a murderous plot more hair-raising than any she had ever concocted. And the danger from the villain of the piece didn't worry her—I was the guy he was shooting at.
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. His eyes rolled as he added, A lady!
A woman here...! 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. At the threshold I jerked to a halt and stared incredulously.
Grannie Annie!
There she stood before a frantically gesticulating desk clerk, leaning on her faded green umbrella. A little wisp of a woman clad in a voluminous black dress with one of those doily-like caps on her head, tied by a ribbon under her chin. Her high-topped button shoes were planted firmly on the varpla carpet and her wrinkled face was set in calm defiance.
I barged across the lounge and seized her hand. Grannie Annie! I haven't seen you in two years.
Hi, Billy-boy, she greeted calmly. Will you please tell this fish-face to shut up.
The desk clerk went white. Mithter Trenwith, if thith lady ith a friend of yourth, you'll have to take her away. It'th abtholutely againth the ruleth....
Okay, okay, I grinned. Look, we'll go into the grille. There's no one there at this hour.
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: