"Wilbur," Marcus said sharply, pulling his hand free. He held up a tattered chart.
"Are you sure you know what you do want?" asked the relaxed man with a yawn.
"I'm coming to it," said Marcus. "Fifty years ago, my father, Mathew Mezzerow, discovered a planet. Things being the way they were then, planet stealing and such, Captain Mezzerow didn't come back and report it. He settled on it right there, securing for his heirs and descendants a proper share of the new world."
"What do you expect for that, a medal?"
"He could have had a medal. Being practical, he preferred a part of the planet. Since then, we have become a thriving community. But we're not growing as fast as we should. That's why I'm here."
"You've come to the wrong place," said the man. "P-EHF is what you want."
"Planets; economic help for? No, we don't want that kind of aid. However, there is one insignificant mistake that has been hindering us. People don't settle the way they should. You see, though Captain Mathew Mezzerow didn't return to report his discovery in person, he did send in a routine claim. That's where the mistake was made. Naturally he named the planet after himself. Mezzerow. Mezz—uh—row. The second e is almost silent, hardly pronounced at all. But what do you think somebody—a robot, probably—called it?"
"I can't guess."
"Messy Row," said Marcus. "It maligns a good man's name. We're stuck with it because somebody bobbled."