of
the nearest supply store to buy a uniform, one was immediately brought
to his room by the manager.

"But how did you know?" asked Tom, astounded.

The manager showed Tom a photograph of himself in his ragged clothes,
taken while he was talking to Connel. In the background was the remains
of the jet car.

"Major Connel called and said you would be staying here," said the
manager. "From the looks of you in this picture, we knew you would need
a new uniform."

"And you've got my size!" exclaimed Tom, holding up the gleaming new
blouse.

"We called the Academy." The manager smiled. "We wanted to be sure.
Incidentally, there is a message for you." The manager handed Tom a
typed space-o-gram and left. The cadet ripped it open and smiled as he
read:

TRYING TO HOG ALL THE STEREO SPACE YOU CAN WHILE YOU LEAVE THE REAL
COMPETITION AT HOME, YOU RAT! CONGRATULATIONS!

ASTRO AND ROGER

Laughing to himself, Tom left the message on the desk, stripped off his
torn, dirty clothes, and stepped into a hot, refreshing shower. Half an
hour later he was digging into a thick steak with French fried potatoes.

After a third helping of dessert, the cadet stretched out on the bed and
closed his eyes. But sleep would not come. The incidents at the
spaceport that afternoon kept flashing through his mind. He tossed
restlessly, something he couldn't quite remember was tugging at the back
of his mind.

He retraced the events of the day, beginning with the landing of the
_Polaris_ and ending with the crash of the jet truck.

Suddenly he sat up straight. Then quickly he jumped out of bed,
hurriedly threw on the new uniform, and rammed his feet into the soft
space boots.

Ten minutes later, having used the service elevator to avoid the lobby,
he stood on the corner of Lowell Lane and Builker Avenue. He hailed a
passing jet cab, and climbing in, asked the driver, "Do you know a
restaurant or a bar called Sloppy Sam's?"

"Sure," said the driver. "That where you want to go?"

"As fast as this wagon will get me there," replied Tom.

"Why?" asked the driver strangely. "You look like a nice kid. That
joint's for--for--well, it ain't for a Space Cadet," he concluded
lamely.

"The first thing they teach us at the Academy, buddy," said Tom
impatiently, "is how to take care of ourselves, and the second thing is
to mind our own business."

"Right," said the driver, tight-lipped. He slammed the car into motion
and the fo