Tape Jockey

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, Mr. Bartle, 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 he had.
Oh, certainly, Mr. Bartle. 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 discourtesy, sir—come in, come in, the little man said, and bustled the bored 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, Mr. Bartle, and sometimes the common courtesies slip my mind. It is 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 toward 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 a word, the tall man interrupted without looking 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'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 chair in this place?
Oh, my gracious, yes. There goes that old discourtesy again, eh? the little man, Pettigill, said with a dry laugh. He scurried about the room like a confused squirrel until he spotted a chair behind his desk. My chair. My chair for you, Mr. Bartle! Again the dry laugh.