"All right, but it was getting interesting." "If I'm betting on the right horse," said Channing, "this will be interesting for all before it is finished!" * * * * * Seven days went by in monotonous procession. Seven days in a world of constant climate. One week marked only by the changing of work shifts and the clocks that marked off the eight-hour periods. Seven days unmarred by rain or cold or heat. Seven days of uninterrupted sunshine that flickered in and out of the sealed viewports with eye-searing brilliance, coming and going as the station rotated. But in the front offices, things were not as serene. No monotony to become irksome. Not that monotony ever set in seriously in the engineering department, but that sacred sanctum of all-things-that-didn't-behave-as-they-should found that even their usual turmoil was worse. There was nothing that a person could set his finger on directly. It was more of a quiet, undercover nature. On Monday Burbank sent around a communique removing the option of free messages for the personnel. On Tuesday he remanded the years-long custom of permitting the supply ships to carry, free, packages from friends at home. On Wednesday, Francis Burbank decided that there should be a curfew on the one and only beer emporium. That was made after he found that curtailing all sorts of alcoholics might easily lead to a more moral problem; there being little enough to do with one's spare time. On Thursday, he set up a stiff-necked staff of censors for the moving picture house. On Friday, he put a tax on cigarettes and candy. On Saturday, he installed time clocks in all the laboratories and professional offices, where previous to his coming, men had come for work a half hour late and worked an hour overtime at night. On Sunday, he ran into trouble! Don Channing stormed into the Director's office with a scowl on his face.