Tom Leahy

Summary

Tom Leahy Tape Jockey

Pettigill twirled the watch chain 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 more than one sane person to control 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 actually entertain the idea th—" He laughed dryly. "Oh, you're pulling my leg, eh, Mr. Bartle."
Source: Gutenberg

Tom Leahy Tape Jockey

Mass Psych advises us never to listen to 'casts. The selections were designed by them for specific social and intellectual levels. It could cause us to experience a rather severe emotional disturbance."
A peculiar look came over Bartle'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 tapecasts?"
Pettigill registered surprise. "Why, certainly, Mr. Bartle. Don't you know Amendment 34206-B specifically states that all Echelon homes must receive music therapy at 2300 hours every night?
Source: Gutenberg

Tom Leahy Tape Jockey

Bartle!" Again the dry laugh.
"Thanks, Mr. Pettigill."
"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 Sub-Prime Echelon. It makes one uncomfortable, shall we say, to step out of one's class?" He stopped talking and 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?
Source: Gutenberg

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