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."