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Gail works in a cubicle in the big cool room on the fourth
floor of the new building on the corner of the square.
The computer sends people to her through the wires, and
she picks up the handset when it blinks and talks to
them.
She is an international operator, so the people are
from here and there, often from far away, often
harried by the effort of getting to Gail's computer
through ancient foreign networks.
Gail likes the smooth anonymous feeling of being polite
to strangers.
Her shift ends at eight, and
sometimes she sits there in the cubicle for another
ten or fifteen minutes, listening to the soft beeps
and clicks from the other stations in the big room,
waiting for nothing in particular.
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