"Good morning. Frank Cardon here. Let me talk, at once, to your
principal, Literate First Class Prestonby."

* * * * *

Ralph Prestonby cleared his throat, slipped a master disk into the
recording machine beside his desk, and pressed the start button.

"Dear Parent or Guardian," he began. "Your daughter, now a third-year
student at this school, has reached the age of eligibility for the
Domestic Science course entitled, 'How To Win and Hold a Husband.'
Statistics show that girls who have completed this valuable course are
sooner, longer, and happier married than those who have not enjoyed
its advantages. We recommend it most highly.

"However, because of the delicate nature of some of the visual
material used, your consent is required. You can attach such consent
to this disk by running it for at least ten seconds after the sign-off
and then switching from 'Play' to 'Transcribe.' Kindly include your
full name, as well as your daughter's, and place your thumbprint on
the opposite side of the disk. Very sincerely yours, Literate First
Class Ralph C. Prestonby, Principal."

He put the master disk in an envelope, checked over a list of names
and addresses of parents and girl students, and put that in also. He
looked over the winter sports schedule, and signed and thumbprinted
it. Then he loaded the recorder with his morning's mail, switched to
"Play," and started it. As he listened, he blew smoke rings across the
room and toyed with a dagger, made from a file, which had been thrown
down the central light-well at him a few days before. The invention of
the pocket recorder, which put a half-hour's conversation on a
half-inch disk, had done more to slow down business and promote inane
correspondence than anything since the earlier inventions of
shorthand, typewriters and pretty stenographers. Finally, he cleared
the machine, dumping the whole mess into a basket and carrying it out
to his secretary.

"Miss Collins, take this infernal rubbish and have a couple of the
girls divide it between them, play it off, and make a digest of it,"
he said. "And here. The sports schedule, and this parental-consent
thing on the husband-trapping course. Have them taken care of."

"This stuff," Martha Collins said, poking at the pile of letter disks.
"I suppose about half of it is threats, abuse and obscenities, and the
other half is from long-winded bores with idiotic suggestions and
ill-natured gripes