Tape Jockey

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  TAPE JOCKEY

  By Tom Leahy

  [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of ScienceFiction March 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

  [Sidenote: _Pettigill was, you might say, in tune with the world. Itwouldn't even have been an exaggeration to say the world was in tunewith Pettigill. Then somebody struck a sour note...._]

  The little man said, "Why, Mr. Bartle, come in. This is indeed apleasure." His pinched face was lighted with an enthusiastic smile.

  "You know my name, so I suppose you know the _Bulletin_ sent me for apersonality interview," the tall man who stood in the doorway said in amonotone as if it were a statement he had made a thousand times--whichhe had.

  "Oh, certainly, Mr. Bartle. I was informed by Section Secretary Andrewsthis morning. I must say, I am greatly honored by this visit, too. Ohheavens, here I am letting you stand in the doorway. Excuse mydiscourtesy, sir--come in, come in," the little man said, and bustledthe bored Bartle into a great room.

  The walls of the room were lined by gray metal boxes that had spools ofreproduction tape mounted on their vertical fronts--tape recorders,hundreds of them.

  "I have a rather lonely occupation, Mr. Bartle, and sometimes the commoncourtesies slip my mind. It is a rather grievous fault and I beg you tooverlook it. It would be rather distressing to me if Section SecretaryAndrews were to hear of it; he has a rather intolerant attitude towardsuch _faux pas_. Do you understand what I mean? Not that I'mdissatisfied with my superior--perish the thought, it's just that--"

  "Don't worry, I won't breathe a word," the tall man interrupted withoutlooking at the babbling fellow shuffling along at his side. "Mr.Pettigill, I don't want to keep you from your work for too long, so I'lljust get a few notes and make up the bulk of the story back at thepaper." Bartle searched the room with his eyes. "Don't you have a chairin this place?"

  "Oh, my gracious, yes. There goes that old discourtesy again, eh?" thelittle man, Pettigill, said with a dry laugh. He scurried about the roomlike a confused squirrel until he spotted a chair behind his desk. "Mychair. My chair for you, Mr. Bartle!" Again the dry laugh.

  "Thanks, Mr. Pettigill."

  "Arthur. Call me Arthur. Formality really isn't necessary among MidEchelon, do you think? Section Secretary Andrews has often requested Icall him Morton, but I just can't seem to bring myself to suchinformality. After all, he is Sub-Prime Echelon. It makes oneuncomfortable, shall we say, to step out of one's class?" He stoppedtalking and the corners of his mouth dropped quickly as if he had justbeen given one minute to live. "You--you _are_ only Mid Echelon, aren'tyou? I mean, if you are Sub-Prime, I shouldn't be--"

  "Relax, Mr. Pettigill--'Arthur'--I _am_ Mid Echelon. And I'm only thatbecause my father was a man of far more industry than I; I inherited myclassification."

  "So? Well, now. Interesting--very. He must have been a great man, agreat man, Mr. Bartle."

  "So I am told, Arthur. But let's get on with it," Bartle said, takingsome scrap paper and a pencil stub from his tunic pocket. "Now, tell meabout yourself and the Melopsych Center."

  "Well," the little man began with a sigh and blinked his eyes peculiarlyas though he were mentally shuffling events and facts like a deck ofcards. "Well, I--my life would be of little interest, but the Center isof the utmost importance. That's it--I am no more than a physicalextremity that functions in accord with the vital life that coursesthrough the great physique of the Center! No more--I ask no more than toserve the Center and in turn, my fellow citizens, whether they be Prime,Sub-Prime, Mid, or even Sub-Lower!"

  He stopped speaking, affecting a martyr-like pose. Bartle covered asmile with his hand.

  "Well, Bartle, as you know, the Center--the Melopsych Center, athoroughly inadequate name for the installation I might say--is thepoint of broadcast for these many taped musical selections contrived byMass Psych as a therapeutic treatment for the various Echelon levels. Itis the Great Psychiatrist--the Father Confessor. For where can one bareone's soul, or soothe one's nerves and disposition frayed by a day'sendeavor, better than in the tender yet firm embrace of music?"

  * * * * *

  Bartle was straining to follow the train of thought that was lost in thecamouflage of Pettigill's flowery phraseology.

  "You see all about you these many recorders, Mr. Bartle?"

  Bartle nodded.

  "On those machines, sir, are spools of tape. Music tapes, all music. Myheavens, every kind: classical music, jazz, western, all kinds of music.Some tapes are no more than a single melodious note, sustained forwhatever length of time necessary to relax and please the Echelon levelhome it is being beamed to. Oh, I tell you, Mr. Bartle, when the lasttape has expended itself for the day, as our service code suggests, Ileave this great edifice with a feeling of profound pride in the factthat I have so served my fellow man. You share that feeling too, don'tyou Mr. Bartle?"

  Bartle shrugged. Pettigill paused and looked at the watch he carried ona long chain attached to a clasp on his tunic.

  "A Benz chronometer, given to me by Section Secretary Andrews on thecompletion of my twenty-five years of service. It's radio-synchronizedwith the master timepiece in Greenland. It gives me a feeling of closecommunion with my superiors, if you understand what I mean."

  Bartle did not. He said, "Am I keeping you from your work? If I am, Ibelieve I can fill in on most of this back at the paper; we have fileson the Center's operation."

  The little man hurriedly put out a hand to restrain Bartle who waseasing out of the chair.

  "Not yet, Mr. Bartle," he said, suddenly much more sober. Then hisincongruous pomposity appeared again. "My gracious, no, you aren'tkeeping me from my work. I just must start the Mid-Lower Echelon tape.It won't take a moment. Tonight, they receive 'Concerto For Ass'sJawbone.' Sounds rather ridiculous, doesn't it? Be that as it may, thereis a certain stimulation in its rhythmic cacophony. Aboriginality--yes,I would say it arouses a primitive exaltation."

  He flicked a switch above the recorder, turned a knob, and pressed thestarter button on the machine. The tape began winding slowly from onespool to another.

  "Is it 'casting'?" Bartle asked. "I don't hear a thing."

  Pettigill laughed. "My stars, no; you can't hear it. See--" He pointedat a needle doing a staccato dance on the meter face of the machine."That tells me everything is operating properly. Mass Psych advises usnever to listen to 'casts. The selections were designed by them forspecific social and intellectual levels. It could cause us to experiencea rather severe emotional disturbance."

  A peculiar look came over Bartle's face. "Is there ever a time when allthe machines run at once? That is, when every Echelon home is tuned tothe melopsych tapecasts?"

  Pettigill registered surprise. "Why, certainly, Mr. Bartle. Don't youknow Amendment 34206-B specifically states that all Echelon homes mustreceive music therapy at 2300 hours every night? Of course, differenttapes to different homes."

  "That's what I mean."

  "Haven't you been abiding by the directive, Mr. Bartle?"

  "I told you I owed my classification to my father's industry. I amdefinitely lax in my duties."

  Pettigill laughed--almost wickedly, Bartle thought.

  "What I'm getting at, is," Bartle continued, "what if the wrong 'castswere channeled into the various homes?"

  "I remind you, sir, I am in charge of the Center and have been forthirty years. Not even the slightest mistake of that nature has everoccurred during that time!"

  "That, I can believe, Pettigill," Bartle said, hi
s voice edged withsarcasm. "But, hypothetically, if it were to happen, what would thereaction be?"

  The little man fidgeted with his watch chain. Then he leaned close toBartle and said in a barely audible whisper, "This isn't for publicationin your article, is it?"

  "You don't think the Government would allow that, do you? No, this is tosatisfy my own curiosity."

  "Well, since we're both Mid Echelon--brothers, so to speak--I suppose wecan share a secret. It will be disastrous! I firmly believe it will bedisastrous, Mr. Bartle!" He moved closer to the tall man. "I recall