"Yes," Mr. Ditmars said. "All that was in the press release. He's one of Mr. McGeachin's employees. Mr. McGeachin discovered him personally, and he got in touch with _us_." Mr. Ditmars almost swelled with visible pride; Mr. Replogle wished he would exercise a bit more self-restraint. Such an open display of emotion was vulgar--almost mechanical, one might say. Especially since they themselves were management, in a way, although one didn't, of course, apply such a word to those who dealt in the arts and crafts. The general public feared and respected the management which governed them, but they loved entrepreneurs. "A factory hand!" _Woman's Own_ gushed. "What a story that will make!" The male reporters laughed as one male. "Where have you been all these years, cookie?" asked the _World-Post and Journal_. "I doubt if there's a factory left in the United States that isn't mechanized to the very hilt by now--with robot labor for the more specialized operations." "I know," she sighed. "Deep down inside of me I really know. I was just hoping. I suppose I am--" and she batted her eyelashes "--like all females, an incurable romantic. What _do_ you suppose Orville is, then?" "Might be a clerk," _Time-week_ suggested. "A lot of the big places still use live clerical help for tone, and, of course, you always need a few human beings around in case the machines break down." "I somehow got the impression that he was an executive," Mr. Ditmars said frostily. "Let's hope not. It would ruin the human element in the story. You can't expect our readers to identify with management." "A minor executive, that is," Mr. Replogle hastened to inform them, before Ditmars could open his big mouth again. "More like a shipping clerk." "Is Orville his first or his last name?" _Woman's Own_ wanted to know. "Just Orville," Mr. Ditmars said. "Like Rembrandt." "Of course Rembrandt did have a last name," Mr. Replogle pointed out. "He just isn't known by it." "And Orville's more like Grandma Moses, anyhow, I would say," commented the _Times-Herald-Mirror_. "He is a primitive, true," Mr. Replogle said judiciously. "If you insist upon pinning a label on him, you might call him a post pre-Raphaelite, with just a soupcon of Rousseau." "I didn't know Rousseau painted," the _World-Post and Journal_ man said, busily clicking on his typopad. "Not that one," Mr. Replogle told him kindly. "The other two." "How old is Orville?" _Woman's Own_ held her typopad at the ready. "How many children does he have? Is he married? Fond of animals? What does he eat for breakfast?" "For heaven's sake," Mr. Ditmars exploded, "it isn't the man himself that matters--it's the man as interpreted through his art! And you can see that art for yourself." He waved his arms toward the pale gallery walls. "Drink it in and absorb the essence of the artist." "But we'd like a little more factual data, as a point of departure. After all, our readers--"