Aziz al Jabbar should get her in conjunction with the satellite

[darcyu.ryle-devonshire]

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

--
opened, and a rough looking man stood there,
unshaven, no collar, cigarette hanging from his lower lip.
His toes showed through great holes in his felt slippers.
"What d'ye want, Cock?" he said. I handed him the card
from the Employment Bureau. He took it, looked at it from
all angles, looked from the card to me and back again, then
said, "Furriner, eh? Plenty of 'em in Clapham. Not so
choosey as us Britishers."
"Will you tell me about the job?" I asked.
"Not now!" he said, "I've got to see you fust. Come in,
I'm in the bismint."
With that he turned and disappeared! I entered the house
in a considerably fuddled state of mind. How could he be
in the "bismint" when he had been in front of me, and what
was the "bismint" anyhow?
The hall of the house was dark. I stood there not knowing
where to go, and I jumped as a voice yelled beside me,
seemingly at my feet, "Hi Cock, ain't'cha comin' dahn?"
A clatter of feet, and the man's head appeared from a dimly
lit basement door which I had not noticed. I followed him
down some rickety wooden stairs, fearing that any moment
I would fall through. "The woiks!" the man said, proudly.
A dim amber bulb shone through a haze of cigarette smoke.
The atmosphere was stifling. Along one wall was a bench

188

with a drain running through its length. Photographic
dishes stood at intervals along it. On a table off to the side