Greg was hungry. The new Interplanetary Restaurant was just around the corner. It was a dandy place to pick up news items for his ten-minute column in the New York Radio Star.

Fennel started ahead. The restaurant occupied a ground-floor segment near the middle of the block. The segment adjoining it was still lighted. Greg caught soft strains of Martian music as he passed. The proprietors, two lanky Martians, were sitting in front of one of the ether-phones for which they were the agents...

Bert Lippert conducted him to a booth. Lippert was one-third owner. The other two-thirds was owned by Flan, a Martian, and Bellon, a Venusian. Fennel disliked both. “Glad you came, Greg,’’ Lippert greeted him. “You’ve been leaving us out of your air column lately. Why?”

“No news, Bert.” Fennel adjusted the arrow on the menu set in the table top and punched the various dishes he wanted. “I don’t handle advertising. Give me news and your restaurant goes on the air...”

(Alien bar scene from Asteroid Pirates by Royal W. Heckman)

Lippert glanced at the row of booths opposite them.