Squadron of the Damned

It was a dingy, dirty interspacial tramp freighter that carried the quiet, expensively attired, serious expressioned young man to Barkay-that nethermost outpost of the civilized interplanetary belt-and deposited him, ornate luggage and all, on the filthy space wharf that was Barkay's only welcome mat to visitors. The serious, expensively tuniced young man, had then inquired of an unkempt and somewhat besotted Martian wharf stevedore, the way to the nearest and least louse infested hotel. The stevedore appraised the young man's rich blue tunic, determined gray eyes, and costly trappings and grinningly gave him the information.