"Well, Bartle, as you know, the Center—the Melopsych Center, a thoroughly inadequate name for the installation I might say—is the point of broadcast for these many taped musical selections contrived by Mass Psych as a therapeutic treatment for the various Echelon levels. It is the Great Psychiatrist—the Father Confessor. For where can one bare one's soul, or soothe one's nerves and disposition frayed by a day's endeavor, better than in the tender yet firm embrace of music?"
Bartle was straining to follow the train of thought that was lost in the camouflage 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. My heavens, every kind: classical music, jazz, western, all kinds of music. Some tapes are no more than a single melodious note, sustained for whatever length of time necessary to relax and please the Echelon level home it is being beamed to. Oh, I tell you, Mr. Bartle, when the last tape has expended itself for the day, as our service code suggests, I leave this great edifice with a feeling of profound pride in the fact that I have so served my fellow man. You share that feeling too, don't you Mr. Bartle?"
Bartle shrugged. Pettigill paused and looked at the watch he carried on a long chain attached to a clasp on his tunic.
"A Benz chronometer, given to me by Section Secretary Andrews on the completion of my twenty-five years of service. It's radio-synchronized with the master timepiece in Greenland. It gives me a feeling of close communion with my superiors, if you understand what I mean."
Bartle did not. He said, "Am I keeping you from your work? If I am, I believe I can fill in on most of this back at the paper; we have files on the Center's operation."
The little man hurriedly put out a hand to restrain Bartle who was easing out of the chair.