Tape Jockey, Page 2
Tom Leahy
asecret administrative directive we received here twenty years agoconcerning just that. In essence, it stated that, though music therapyhas its great advantages, if the pattern of performance were broken oraltered, a definite erratic emotional reaction would develop on the partof the citizens! That was twenty years ago, and I shudder to think whatmight be the response now; especially if the 'cast were completelyforeign to the recipient." He gave a little shudder to emphasize thehorror of the occurrence. "It would make psychotics of the entirecitizenry! That's what would happen--a nation of psychotics!"
"The fellow who didn't hear the 'miscast' would be top dog, eh,Pettigill? He could call his shots."
* * * * *
Pettigill twirled the watch chain faster between a forefinger and thumb."No, he'd gain nothing," he said, staring as though hypnotized by thewhirling, gold chain. "It would take more than one _sane_ person tocontrol the derelict population. Perhaps--perhaps two," he mumbled."Yes, I think perhaps two could."
"You and who else, Pettigill?"
Pettigill stepped back and drew himself erect. "What? You actuallyentertain the idea th--" He laughed dryly. "Oh, you're pulling my leg,eh, Mr. Bartle."
"I suppose I am."
"Well, such a remark gives one a jolt, if you know what I mean. Eventhough we are speaking of a hypothetical occurrence, we must be cautiousabout such talk, Mr. Bartle. Although our government is a benevolentorganization, it _is_ ill-disposed toward such ideas." He cleared histhroat. "Now, is there anything else I can tell you about the Center?"
Bartle arose from the chair, stuffing the scrap paper and unused pencilback in his pocket. "Thanks, no," he said, "I think this'll cover it. Ohyes, the article will appear in this Sunday's edition. Thanks,Pettigill, for giving me your time."
"Oh, I wish to thank you, Mr. Bartle. Being featured in a _Bulletin_article is the ultimate to a man such as I--a man whose only wishes areto serve his country and his brothers."
"I'm sure you're doing both with great efficiency," Bartle said as heapathetically shook Pettigill's hand and started toward the door.
"A moment, Mr. Bartle--" the little man called.
Bartle stopped and turned.
"I perceive, Mr. Bartle, you are a man of exceptional ability,"Pettigill said and cleared his throat. "It seems a shame to waste suchtalent; it should be directed toward some definite goal. Do youunderstand what I mean? After all, we're all brothers, you know. Itwould 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 untilmorning. What the hell, he had a stock format for all such articles. Thepeople were the same: selfless, heroic type, citizens working for themutual good of all. Only the names were different. And yet, thisPettigill had disturbed him. Perhaps it was something he had said thatBartle could not remember.
* * * * *
He walked into his warm flat and extracted the pre-cooked meal from theelectroven. He ate with little relish, abstractly thinking of thefoolish little cog in the governmental machine he had talked with thatafternoon. Or was Pettigill that foolish little cog? Bartle could nothelp but feel there was something deep inside him that did not show inthat wizened and seemingly open little face. He thought about it therest of the evening.
He looked at the clock on the night table--2300 hours. "Pettigill'sLullaby Hour," he thought. Bartle chuckled and switched off the bedlight. He was asleep before the puffs of air had escaped from under thecovers he pulled over himself.
When the phone rang at 0300, Bartle was strangely not surprised,although, consciously, he was expecting no call.
"Hello," he said sleepily.
"Bartle? This is Pettigill." The voice _was_ Pettigill's but thenervous, timid, quality was gone. "I assume you did not hear the 2300'cast?"
"You assume correctly, Pettigill. What d'you want?"
"Come on over to the Center; we'll split a fifth of former SectionSecretary Andrews' Scotch."
"What the hell do you mean?"
"Were you serious about that 'therapy revolution' we were talking aboutthis afternoon?"
"I'm always serious. So what?"
"Excellent, excellent," Pettigill laughed. "I've spent thirty years justwaiting for such a man as you! No, I'm serious, my cynical friend--whatposition would you like in the new government?"
"Let's see--why don't you make my descendants real peachy happy and makeme, say, Administrator of Civilian Relations. That sounds big andimportant."
"Fine, fine! Tell me, Bartle--how are your relations with psychotics?"
Bartle leaped to the floor. Instantly he recalled what Pettigill hadsaid that had disturbed him. When they had been discussing therepercussions of a miscast, Pettigill had said, "it _will_ bedisastrous" and not "it _would_ be disastrous." The devil had beenplanning just such a thing for God knows how long!
"How many of 'em, Pettigill?" Bartle asked.
"A lot, Bartle, a lot," the little man answered. "I would say 170million! I might even say, a nation of psychotics!" He giggled again.
A smile sliced through Bartle's sallow cheeks. "My relations with themwould be the best! Keep that Scotch handy, Pettigill. I'll be rightover."
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"The fellow who didn't hear the 'miscast' would be top dog, eh,Pettigill? He could call his shots."
* * * * *
Pettigill twirled the watch chain faster between a forefinger and thumb."No, he'd gain nothing," he said, staring as though hypnotized by thewhirling, gold chain. "It would take more than one _sane_ person tocontrol the derelict population. Perhaps--perhaps two," he mumbled."Yes, I think perhaps two could."
"You and who else, Pettigill?"
Pettigill stepped back and drew himself erect. "What? You actuallyentertain the idea th--" He laughed dryly. "Oh, you're pulling my leg,eh, Mr. Bartle."
"I suppose I am."
"Well, such a remark gives one a jolt, if you know what I mean. Eventhough we are speaking of a hypothetical occurrence, we must be cautiousabout such talk, Mr. Bartle. Although our government is a benevolentorganization, it _is_ ill-disposed toward such ideas." He cleared histhroat. "Now, is there anything else I can tell you about the Center?"
Bartle arose from the chair, stuffing the scrap paper and unused pencilback in his pocket. "Thanks, no," he said, "I think this'll cover it. Ohyes, the article will appear in this Sunday's edition. Thanks,Pettigill, for giving me your time."
"Oh, I wish to thank you, Mr. Bartle. Being featured in a _Bulletin_article is the ultimate to a man such as I--a man whose only wishes areto serve his country and his brothers."
"I'm sure you're doing both with great efficiency," Bartle said as heapathetically shook Pettigill's hand and started toward the door.
"A moment, Mr. Bartle--" the little man called.
Bartle stopped and turned.
"I perceive, Mr. Bartle, you are a man of exceptional ability,"Pettigill said and cleared his throat. "It seems a shame to waste suchtalent; it should be directed toward some definite goal. Do youunderstand what I mean? After all, we're all brothers, you know. Itwould 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 untilmorning. What the hell, he had a stock format for all such articles. Thepeople were the same: selfless, heroic type, citizens working for themutual good of all. Only the names were different. And yet, thisPettigill had disturbed him. Perhaps it was something he had said thatBartle could not remember.
* * * * *
He walked into his warm flat and extracted the pre-cooked meal from theelectroven. He ate with little relish, abstractly thinking of thefoolish little cog in the governmental machine he had talked with thatafternoon. Or was Pettigill that foolish little cog? Bartle could nothelp but feel there was something deep inside him that did not show inthat wizened and seemingly open little face. He thought about it therest of the evening.
He looked at the clock on the night table--2300 hours. "Pettigill'sLullaby Hour," he thought. Bartle chuckled and switched off the bedlight. He was asleep before the puffs of air had escaped from under thecovers he pulled over himself.
When the phone rang at 0300, Bartle was strangely not surprised,although, consciously, he was expecting no call.
"Hello," he said sleepily.
"Bartle? This is Pettigill." The voice _was_ Pettigill's but thenervous, timid, quality was gone. "I assume you did not hear the 2300'cast?"
"You assume correctly, Pettigill. What d'you want?"
"Come on over to the Center; we'll split a fifth of former SectionSecretary Andrews' Scotch."
"What the hell do you mean?"
"Were you serious about that 'therapy revolution' we were talking aboutthis afternoon?"
"I'm always serious. So what?"
"Excellent, excellent," Pettigill laughed. "I've spent thirty years justwaiting for such a man as you! No, I'm serious, my cynical friend--whatposition would you like in the new government?"
"Let's see--why don't you make my descendants real peachy happy and makeme, say, Administrator of Civilian Relations. That sounds big andimportant."
"Fine, fine! Tell me, Bartle--how are your relations with psychotics?"
Bartle leaped to the floor. Instantly he recalled what Pettigill hadsaid that had disturbed him. When they had been discussing therepercussions of a miscast, Pettigill had said, "it _will_ bedisastrous" and not "it _would_ be disastrous." The devil had beenplanning just such a thing for God knows how long!
"How many of 'em, Pettigill?" Bartle asked.
"A lot, Bartle, a lot," the little man answered. "I would say 170million! I might even say, a nation of psychotics!" He giggled again.
A smile sliced through Bartle's sallow cheeks. "My relations with themwould be the best! Keep that Scotch handy, Pettigill. I'll be rightover."
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