The Professor lowered the cream-colored envelope.  Red hesitated for a moment, then took it. When was the last time he’d held anything man-made? Maybe his uncle’s wool blanket. That was crude, though, old and cheap. This was different: hard edged, rectangular, sealed with a thick blob of wax embossed with the Professor’s sigil—two circles around a central dot. Red turned it over. His filthy hands had already defaced it; a thumb print smeared the virgin paper. His cheeks flushed; the stupid kid who didn’t wash his hands.