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.]
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