 Orison’s introduction to Auga Vingt could best be described as...
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961. "What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. "That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji," Orison said. "Yes, sir," Orison said. Beside them was a double-decked "In" and "Out" basket. "Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey," Mr. Wanji said. "Yes, sir," Orison said. "Yes, sir," Orison said. By lunchtime Orison had finished the Wall Street Journal and had begun reading a book an earmuffed page had brought her. An odd business for a Federal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into a microphone for an invisible audience. Orison switched off her microphone at noon, marked her place in the book and took the elevator down to the ground floor. As though they were members of a ballet-troupe, these gentlemen whipped off their hats with a single motion as Orison stepped aboard the elevator. Orison sighed, finished her tuna salad on whole-wheat, then went back upstairs to her lonely desk and her microphone. By five, Orison had finished the book, reading rapidly and becoming despite herself engrossed in the saga of Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit. What I need, Orison thought, walking rapidly to the busline, is a double Scotch, followed by a double Scotch. Orison stopped in at the restaurant nearest her apartment house—the Windsor Arms—and ordered a meal and a single Martini. Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day's observations in order. Orison slipped between the sheets at eleven-thirty. "Of a sort," Monitor J-12 agreed. Shall we establish our rendezvous here at eleven-fifteen, Central Standard Time, every day?" Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolved to write Washington for permission to make her future reports by registered mail. At ten o'clock the next morning, reading page four of the current Wall Street Journal , Orison was interrupted by the click of a pair of leather heels. "Reading papers and fairy-tales into this microphone is nothing any reasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well," Orison said. "I'd love to," Orison said, half expecting an orchestra to march, playing, from the elevator. Sandhurst, perhaps, or Saint Cyr.
 Passive-aggressive
 Friendly  Cordial  Passive-aggressive  Heated