Imran Sayed Abdellah should argue her no matter how the despair
Simone G. Parenti
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
--
I'll put
you in touch with my agent. He may be able to fix you up."
He scribbled industriously, and then handed me a paper
with an address upon it. Almost before I knew what had
happened, I was outside the office. "Well," I thought, "Will
this be another wild-goose chase?"
I looked at the piece of paper in my hand. Regent Street?
Now, which end of the street would it be? I got out of the
train at Oxford Circus, and with my usual luck, found that
I was at the wrong end! Regent Street was crowded, people
seemed to be milling round the entrance of the big stores.
A Boys' Brigade or Salvation Army Band, I did not know
which, was proceeding noisily down Conduit Street. I
walked on, past the Goldsmiths and Silversmiths Company,
thinking how a little of their wares would enable me to get
on with research. Where the street curved to enter Piccadilly
Circus I crossed the road and looked for that wretched
number. Travel Agency, Shoe Shop, but no Authors'
Agent. Then I saw the number, sandwiched in between
two shops. In I went to a little vestibule at the far end of
which was an open lift. There was a bell push, so I used it.
Nothing happened. I waited perhaps five minutes and then
pressed the button again.
A clatter of feet, "You brought me up from the coal 'ole!"
said a voice. "I was just 'avin' a cup of tea. Which floor d'ye
want?"
"Mr. B-," I said, "I do not know which floor."
"Aw, third floor," said the man. " 'E's in, I took 'im up.
This is it," he said, sliding open the iron gate. "Turn right,
in that door." With that he disappeared back to his cooling
tea.
I pushed open the door indicated and walked up to a
little counter. "Mr. B-?" I said. "I have an appointment
with him." The dark haired girl went off in search of Mr.
B- and I looked around me. At the other side of the
counter girls were drinking tea. An elderly man was being
199
given instruction about del