Tape Jockey - Tom Leahy

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Tape jockey by Tom Lay. Pettigill was, you might say,
in tune with the world. It wouldn't even have been
an exaggeration to say the world was in tune with Pettigill.
Then somebody struck a sour note. The little man said, why,

(00:22):
mister Bartell, come in. This is indeed a pleasure. His
pinched face was lighted with an enthusiastic smile. You know
my name, so I suppose you know the bulletin sent
me for a personality interview. The tall man who stood
in the doorway said, in a monotone, as if it
were a statement he had made a thousand times, which

(00:45):
he had. Oh, certainly, mister Bartel, I was informed by
Section Secretary Andrews this morning. I must say I am
greatly honored by this visit too. Oh heavens, here I
am letting you stand in the doorway. Excuse my dess courtesy, sir,
Come in, Come in, the little man said, and bustled

(01:05):
the board Bartle into a great room. The walls of
the room were lined by gray metal boxes that had
spools of reproduction tape mounted on their vertical fronts, tape recorders,
hundreds of them. I have a rather lonely occupation, mister Bartell,
and sometimes the common courtesies looped my mind. It is

(01:27):
a rather grievous fault, and I beg you to overlook it.
It would be rather distressing to me if Section Secretary
Andrews were to hear of it. He has a rather
intolerant attitude towards such faux pas. Do you understand what
I mean? Not that I'm dissatisfied with my superior perish
the thought, it's just that. Don't worry. I won't breathe

(01:49):
a word, the tall man interrupted, without looking at the
babbling fellow shuffling along at his side. Mister Pettigal, I
don't want to keep you from your work for too long,
so I'll just get a few notes and make up
the bulk of the story. Back at the paper, Bartle
searched the room with his eyes. Don't you have a

(02:10):
chair in this place? Oh? My gracious yes, there goes
that old discourtesy again, eh, the little man Pettigl said,
with a dry laugh. He scurried around the room like
a confused squirrel until he spotted a chair behind his desk.
My chair, My chair for you, mister Bartell again the

(02:30):
dry laugh. Thanks, mister Pettigle, Arthur, call me Arthur. Formality
really isn't necessary among mid echelon, do you think Section
Secretary Andrews has often requested I call him Morton. But
I just can't seem to bring myself to such informality.
After all, he is subprime echelon. It makes one uncomfortable,

(02:54):
shall we say, to step out of one's class. He
stopped talking in the corners of his mouth dropped quickly,
as if he had just been given one minute to live.
You you are only mid echelon, aren't you. I mean,
if you are subprime, I shouldn't be relaxed, mister Pedtigal Arthur.

(03:15):
I am mid echelon, and I'm only that because my
father was a man of far more industry than I.
I inherited my classification so well. Now, interesting, very, he
must have been a great man, a great man, mister Bartell,
so I am told, Arthur. But let's get on with it,

(03:37):
Bartell said, taking some scrap paper and a pencil stub
from his tunic pocket. Now tell me about yourself and
the Mellows Center. Well, the little man began with a sigh,
and blinked his eyes peculiarly, as though he were mentally
shuffling events and facts like a deck of cards. Well,

(03:57):
I my life would be of little trust, But the
Center is of the utmost importance. That's it. I am
no more than a physical extremity that functions in accord
with the vital life that courses through the great physique
of the Center. No more, I ask no more than
to serve the Center, and in turn my fellow citizens,

(04:18):
whether they be prime, subprime, mid, or even sub lower.
He stopped speaking, affecting a martyr like pose. Bartell covered
a smile with his hand. Well, Bartell, as you know
the center, the melopsych Center, a thoroughly inadequate name for
the installation, I might say, is the point of broadcast

(04:39):
for these many taped musical selections contrived by mass psych
as a therapeutic treatment for the various echelon levels. It
is the great psychiatrist, the father Confessor. For where can
one bear one's soul or soothe one's nerves and disposition
frayed by a day's endeavor better than in the tender

(05:01):
yet firm embrace of music. Bartell was straining to follow
the train of thought that was lost in the camouflage
of Petagle's flowery phraseology. You see all about you these
many recorders, mister Bartell. Bartell nodded on this machine, sir,
are spools of tape. Music tapes, all music, my heavens,

(05:24):
every kind, classical music, jazz, Western, all kinds of music.
Some tapes are no more than a single melodious note,
sustained for whatever length of time necessary to relax and
please the echelon level home it is being beamed to. Oh,
I tell you, mister Bartell, when the last tape has
expended itself for the day, as our service code suggests,

(05:47):
I leave this great edifice with a feeling of profound
pride in the fact that I have so served my
fellow man. You share that feeling, too, don't you, mister Bartell.
Bartell shrugged. Pettigill paused and looked at the watch he
carried on a long chain attached to a clasp on
his tunic, a Ben's chronometer, given to me by Section

(06:10):
Secretary Andrews on the completion of my twenty five years
of service. It's radio synchronized with the master time piece
in Greenland. It gives me a feeling of close communion
with my superiors. If you understand what I mean. Bartell
did not. He said, am I keeping you from your work?

(06:31):
If I am, I believe I can fill in on
most of this. Back at the paper, we have files
on the center's operation. The little Man hurriedly put out
a hand to restrain Bartell, who was easing out of
the chair. Not yet, mister Bartell, he said, suddenly, much
more sober, then his incongruous pomposity appeared again. My gracious, no,

(06:54):
you aren't keeping me from my work. I just must
start the mid lower echelonteape. It won't take a moment.
Tonight they receive Concerto for Ass's jawbone. Sounds rather ridiculous,
doesn't it be? That? As it may, there is a
certain stimulation in its rhythmic cacophony, aboriginality. Yes, I would

(07:16):
say it arouses a primitive exultation. He flicked a switch
above the recorder, turned a knob, and pressed the starter
button on the machine. The tape began winding slowly from
one spool to another. Is it casting? Bartle asked, I
don't hear a thing. Pettigil laughed. My stars no, you

(07:40):
can't hear it. See. He pointed at a needle doing
a staccato dance on the meter face of the machine.
That tells me everything is operating properly. Mass Psych advises
us never to listen to casts. The selections were designed
by them for specific social and intellectual levels. It could

(08:00):
cause us to experience a rather severe emotional disturbance. A
peculiar look came over Bartell's face. Is there ever a
time when all the machines run at once? That is,
when every Echelon home is tuned to the melopsych tape casts?
Pittagill registered surprise. Why certainly, mister Bartell, don't you know

(08:23):
Amendment thirty four two of six B specifically states that
all Echelon holmes must receive music therapy at twenty three
hundred hours every night. Of course, different tapes to different homes.
That's what I mean. Haven't you been abiding by the directive?
Mister Bartell? I told you I owed my classification to

(08:45):
my father's industry. I am definitely lax in my duties.
Pettigill laughed, almost wickedly. Bartell thought, what I'm getting at is?
Bartell continued, what are the wrong casts were into the
various homes. I remind you, sir, I am in charge
of the center and have been for thirty years. Not

(09:08):
even the slightest mistake of that nature has ever occurred
during that time, that I can believe, Petagol Bartell said,
his voice edged with sarcasm. But hypothetically, if it were
to happen, what would the reaction be? The little man
fidgeted with his watch chain. Then he leaned close to

(09:28):
Bartell and said, in a barely audible whisper, this isn't
for publication in your article, is it. You don't think
the government would allow that, do you? No, this is
to satisfy my own curiosity. Well, since we're both mid
echelon brothers, so to speak, I suppose we can share
a secret. It will be disastrous. I firmly believe it

(09:52):
will be disastrous, mister Bartell. He moved closer to the
tall man. I recall a secret Administrator directive we received
here twenty years ago concerning just that. In essence, it
stated that though music therapy has its great advantages, if
the pattern of performance were broken or altered, a definite,

(10:14):
erratic emotional reaction would develop on the part of the citizens.
That was twenty years ago, and I shuddered to think
what might be the response now, especially if the cast
were completely foreign to the recipient. He gave a little
shudder to emphasize the horror of the occurrence. It would
make psychotics of the entire citizenry. That's what would happen,

(10:39):
a nation of psychotics. The fellow who didn't hear the
miscast would be top dog, eh Pettigil, he would call
his shots. Pettigill twirled the watchchain faster between a forefinger
and thumb. No, he'd gain nothing, he said, staring as
though hypnotized by the whirling gold chain. It would take

(11:01):
more than one sane person to control the derelict population.
Perhaps perhaps too, he mumbled, Yes, I think perhaps too,
could you? And who else? Pedtigol? Pettigil stepped back and
drew himself erect what you actually entertained the idea the

(11:23):
he laughed dryly. Oh, you're pulling my leg, eh, mister Bartell,
I suppose I am well. Such a remark gives one
a jolt, if you know what I mean. Even though
we are speaking of a hypothetical occurrence, we must be
cautious about such talk, mister Bartell. Although our government is
a benevolent organization, it is ill disposed towards such ideas.

(11:48):
He cleared his throat. A hah, Now, is there anything
else I can tell you about the center? Bartle arose
from the chair, stuffing the scrap paper an unused pencil
back in his pocket. Thanks, no, he said, I think
this will cover it. Oh. Yes, the article will appear
in this Sunday's edition. Thanks Peedigil for giving me your time.

(12:11):
Oh I wish to thank you, mister Bartell. Being featured
in a bulletin article is the ultimate to a man
such as I, a man whose only wishes are to
serve his country and his brothers. I'm sure you're doing
both with great efficiency, Bartle said, as he apathetically shook
Pettigill's hand and started toward the door. A moment, mister Bartell,

(12:36):
the little man called Bartle, stopped and turned. I perceive,
mister Bartell, you are a man of exceptional ability, Pettigill said,
and cleared his throat. Eh ah, I it seems a
shame to waste such talent. It should be directed towards
some definite goal. Do you understand what I mean, after all,

(12:58):
we're all brothers. You know it would be for my
benefit as well as yours. Sure, sure, brother Bartle snorted
and left. He started for the paper office, but decided
to let the story go until morning. What the hell,
he had a stock format for all such articles. The
people were the same, selfless, heroic type, citizens working for

(13:21):
the mutual good of all, only the names were different.
And yet this Pedigal had disturbed him. Perhaps it was
something he had said that Bartle could not remember. He
walked into his warm flat and extracted the pre cooked
meal from the electro oven. He ate with little relish,
abstractly thinking of the foolish little cog in the governmental

(13:45):
machine he had talked with that afternoon, Or was Pedigal
that foolish little cog. Bartle could not help but feel
there was something deep inside him that did not show
in that wizened and seemingly open little face. He thought
about it the rest of the evening. He looked at
the clock on the night table. Twenty three hundred hours

(14:08):
Pettigill's lullaby hour, he thought. Bartle chuckled and switched off
the bed light. He was asleep before the puffs of
air had escaped from under the covers. He pulled over himself.
When the phone rang at oh three hundred, Bartle was
strangely not surprised, although consciously he was expecting no call Hello.

(14:31):
He said sleepily, Bartle, this is Pedigill. The voice was Petrogill's,
but the nervous, timid quality was gone. I assume you
did not hear the twenty three hundred cast. You assume correctly, Pettigill,
What do you want? Come on over to the center.
We'll split a fifth of former Section Secretary Andrews Scotch.

(14:53):
What the hell do you mean? Were you serious about
that therapy revolution we were talking about this afternoon. I'm
always serious. So what excellent excellent Pettigil laughed. I've spent
thirty years just waiting for such a man as you. No,
I'm serious, my cynical friend. What position would you like
in the new government? Let's see? Why don't you make

(15:17):
my descendants real peachy happy and make me say administrator
of civilian Relations. That sounds big and important. Fine, fine,
tell me, Bartle, how are your relations with psychotics? Bartle
leaped to the floor instantly. He recalled what Pedtigil had said.
That had disturbed him. When they had been discussing the

(15:40):
repercussions of a miscast, Pettigil had said, it will be disastrous,
and not it would be disastrous. The devil had been
planning just such a thing for god knows how long.
How many of em Pettigil Bartle asked, A lot? Bartle,
A lot, The little man answered, I would say one

(16:01):
hundred and seventy million. I might even say a nation
of psychotics. He giggled again. A smile sliced through bartles
sallow cheeks. My relations with them would be the best.
Keep that Scotch handy Pettago. I'll be right over. End
of Tape Jockey by Tom Lady