Aslan Mahammed Al Omari should heat her in line with the institute

[A. A. Ralon-Woznicki]

Reply by email, filling out this form and emailing it to me.
Trimming off the rest of this post is unnecessary.

I will guarantee anonymity except in cases of blatant abuse.
I will achieve anonymity by tallying the results in
uncorrelated tabulations and then deleting the emails.
(I know this loses interesting correlation data, but if
resondents want anonymity it's hard to avoid.)
I know that this anonymity promise depends on trust and that
you have no particular reason to trust me. Someday, I hope.
I will post results Saturday.

xxxxxxxx beginning of survey xxxxxxxx

yes( ) ( )no Should RoadRunner be subjected to some kind of UDP?
yes( ) ( )no ... active UDP (cancels) ?
yes( ) ( )no ... passive UDP (drop messages) ?
yes( ) ( )no ... all-groups UDP? (as opposed to specific groups)
yes( ) ( )no Are you a Usenet sysadmin? How big:_ How long:_
yes( ) ( )no Should another server be subjected to UDP? Who:_
yes( ) ( )no Should UDPs be used more often?
yes( ) ( )no Should UDPs be used less often?
yes( ) ( )no Would you have answered this survey without anonymity?

xxxxxxxx end of survey xxxxxxxx

--
a look." He reached over and
took my paper, leaving me to wonder blankly what a Burey
could be. What a lot there was to learn, I thought. How
ignorant I was of everything to do with the Western world.
Licking his fingers, and mumbling the letters of the alpha-
bet to himself, the man fumbled through the pages. "Here
y'are!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "Employment Bureys
-here-take a look at it yerself."
Quickly I scanned the column so clearly indicated by his
very dirty thumb mark. Employment Bureaux, Employ-
ment Agencies. Jobs. "But this is for women," I said
disgustedly.
"Garn!" he replied, "You can't read, it says there men
and women. Now you go along an' see 'em an' don't take

184

no old buck from them. Oh! They'll play you up and
string you along if you let 'em. Tell 'em you want a job,
or else!"
That afternoon I hurried off to the heart of London,
climbing the dingy stairs to a ramshackle office in a back
street of Soho. A painted woman with artificially blond hair
and scarlet talons of nails was sitting at a metal desk in a
room so small it might once have been a cupboard.
"I want a job," I said.
She leaned back and surveyed me coolly. Yawning
widely, she displayed a mouthful of decayed teeth and a
furred tongue. "Ooaryer?" she said. I gaped at her blankly.
"Ooaryer?" she repeated.
"I am sorry," I said, "but I do not understand your
question."
"Oogawd!" she sighed wearily. "Ee don't speak no
English. 'Erefillupaform." She threw a questionnaire at me,
removed her pen, clock, a book and her handbag, and
disappeared into