Mezzerow Loves Company

There were pride and indignation in Mezzerow's mission to Earth and yet a practical reason ... but maybe he should have let bad enough alone!
The official took their passports, scanning the immense variety of stamps he had to choose from. He selected one with multicolored ink that suited his fancy and smeared it against the small square of plastic.
Marcus Mezzerow? he asked, glancing at the older man and back at the passport. 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's hard to believe they'd call it Messy Row.
There is a mistake, said Marcus heavily. However, there's nothing you can 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 was slow 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 almost think people on Earth can't spell—or maybe they don't listen. That's why 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 caught sight of a woman coming toward him and cringed inwardly before he recognized that she, too, had just arrived from one of the outer worlds. He could tell because of the absence of the identifying gleam in her eyes. On principle he'd stamp her passport with dull and dingy ink.
Wilbur scuffled along beside his father. He hadn't attained his full growth, but he was as tall though not as heavy as Marcus. Where are we going now? he asked. Get the name changed?
Don't gawk, said Marcus, restraining his own tendency to gaze around in 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 to act as if Earth is an unfriendly planet.