"Any minute now. They're down the hall. Lemme tighten your bunk or you'll be in trouble--" Tightening the bunk he pulled out the letter and said, calvishly: "Ah-_hah_! Who is she?--" and opened it. When the cadet officers reached the room they found Ferguson on the floor being strangled black in the face by spidery little Grayson. It took all three of them to pull him off. Ferguson went to the infirmary and Grayson went to the Commandant's office. The Commandant glared at the cadet from under the most spectacular pair of eyebrows in the Service. "Cadet Grayson," he said, "explain what occurred." "Sir, Cadet Ferguson began to read a letter from my mother without my permission." "That is not accepted by the Corps as grounds for mayhem. Do you have anything further to say?" "Sir, I lost my temper. All I thought of was that it was an act of disrespect to my mother and somehow to the Corps and the Republic too--that Cadet Ferguson was dishonoring the Corps." _Bushwah_, the Commandant thought. _A snow job and a crude one._ He studied the youngster. He had never seen such a brace from an Io-bred fourth-classman. It must be torture to muscles not yet toughened up to even Lunar gravity. Five minutes more and the boy would have to give way, and serve him right for showing off. He studied Grayson's folder. It was too early to tell about academic work, but the fourth-classman was a bear--or a fool--for extra duty. He had gone out for half a dozen teams and applied for membership in the exacting Math Club _and_ Writing Club. The Commandant glanced up; Grayson was still in his extreme brace. The Commandant suddenly had the queer idea that Grayson could hold it until it killed him. "One hundred hours of pack-drill," he barked, "to be completed before quarter-term. Cadet Grayson, if you succeed in walking off your tours, remember that there is a tradition of fellowship in the Corps which its members are expected to observe. Dismiss." After Grayson's steel-sharp salute and exit the Commandant dug deeper into the folder. Apparently there was something wrong with the boy's left arm, but it had been passed by the examining team that visited Io. Most unusual. Most irregular. But nothing could be done about it now. * * * * * The President, softer now in body than on his election day, and infinitely more cautious, snapped: "It's all very well to create an incident. But where's the money to come from? Who wants the rest of Io anyway? And what will happen if there's war?" Treasury said: "The hoarders will supply the money, Mr. President. A system of percentage-bounties for persons who report currency-hoarders, and then enforced purchase of a bond issue." Raw materials said: "We need that iron, Mr. President. We need it desperately."