"No, Miss McCall," the voice said. "Only at report times. Shall we establish our rendezvous here at eleven-fifteen, Central Standard Time, every day?"
"You make it sound so improper," Orison said.
"I'm far enough away to do you no harm, Miss McCall," the monitor said. "Now, tell me what happened at the bank today."
Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to a microphone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard Taft National Bank and Trust Company. "That's about it, so far," she said.
"Good report," J-12 said from the pillow. "Sounds like you've dropped into a real snakepit, beautiful."
"How do you know ... why do you think I'm beautiful?" Orison asked.
"Native optimism," the voice said. "Good night." J-12 signed off with a peculiar electronic pop that puzzled Orison for a moment. Then she placed the sound: J-12 had kissed his microphone.
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.
II