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     PARKINSON'S LAW
     [AND OTHER STUDIES IN ADMINISTRATION]
     BY
     C. Northcote Parkinson
     Raffles Professor of History
     University of Malaya
     ILLUSTRATED BY
     Robert C. Osborn

     HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY, BOSTON


     SEVENTEENTH PRINTING
     (c) 1957 by C. Northcote Parkinson
     The Riverside Press
     Cambridge - Massachusetts
     Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 57-9981
     Printed in the U.S.A.


     for Ann






     TO THE  VERY YOUNG,  to schoolteachers, as  also  to those who  compile
textbooks about  constitutional history, politics, and current  affairs, the
world  is  a more or  less rational  place. They visualize  the election  of
representatives,  freely chosen  from  among those  the people  trust.  They
picture  the process by which the wisest and  best of these become ministers
of  state.  They  imagine  how  captains  of  industry,  freely  elected  by
shareholders, choose  for managerial  responsibility those  who have  proved
their ability in a humbler role. Books  exist  in which  assumptions such as
these  are  boldly stated or tacitly implied. To those, on the  other  hand,
with  any  experience of affairs, these  assumptions  are  merely ludicrous.
Solemn conclaves  of  the  wise and good are  mere figments of the teacher's
mind. It is salutary, therefore, if an occasional warning is uttered on this
subject.  Heaven  forbid that students should  cease  to read  books  on the
science of  public or  business  administration-- provided  only that  these
works are classified as fiction. Placed  between the novels of Rider Haggard
and H.  G. Wells,  intermingled with volumes about ape  men and space ships,
these  textbooks could harm  no one.  Placed  elsewhere, vii among  works of
reference, they can do more damage than might at first sight seem possible.
     Dismayed to  realize what other people  suppose to  be the truth  about
civil servants or building plans,  I have occasionally tried to provide, for
those interested,  a glimpse of reality.  The reader of discrimination  will
guess that these glimpses of the truth are based  on no ordinary experience.
In   the   expectation,   moreover,   that  some  readers  will  have   less
discrimination  than  others, I  have been  careful  to  hint, occasionally,
casually, at the vast amount of research upon which my theories are founded.
Let the reader picture  to himself  the  wall  charts, card  index cabinets,
calculating machines, slide rules, and reference works that  may  be thought
the indispensable background to a  study  such  as  this. Let  him  then  be
assured that the reality dwarfs all his imagining, and that the truths  here
revealed are the work not merely of an admittedly gifted individual but of a
vast and costly research establishment.  An occasional  reader may feel that
more  detailed  description should have been  given  of the  experiments and
calculations upon  which these theories rest. Let him reflect, however, that
a volume so elaborate would take longer to read and cost more to buy.
     While it is  undeniable that  each  one  of  these  essays embodies the
results from years of  patient investigation,  it must  not be supposed that
all  has yet been told. The  recent discovery in  a certain field of warfare
that the  number  of the  enemy killed varies inversely with  the number  of
generals on one's own side has  opened a whole new  field of research. A new
significance  has  been  quite  recently attributed to  the  illegibility of
signatures,  the  attempt  being  made  to fix  the  point in  a  successful
executive career at viii  which  the handwriting becomes meaningless even to
the  executive  himself.  New developments  occur  almost  daily,  making it
virtually certain  that later editions of this work will  quickly  supersede
the first.
     I  wish  to  thank the  editors  who have  given  permission to reprint
certain  of these  essays.  Pride of place  must  go to the  editor  of  The
Economist,  the  journal  in  which  Parkinson's  law was  first revealed to
mankind. To the  same editor I  am  indebted for  permission to  reprint the
essay on "Directors and Councils," as also that  on "Pension Point." Certain
of the other articles have also appeared previously in Harper's Magazine and
The Reporter.
     To  the artist,  Robert C. Osborn, I am  deeply grateful for  adding  a
touch of frivolity to a work that might otherwise have seemed too  technical
for  the  general  reader.  To  the  publishers  I  am  indebted  for  their
encouragement,  without which I should have  attempted little  and  achieved
still less. Last  of all, I place on  record the gratitude I feel toward the
higher mathematician with whose science the  reader is  occasionally blinded
and to whom (but for other reasons) this book is dedicated.
     C. NORTHCOTE PARKINSON
     Singapore
     1957


CONTENTS
     
  
  
Preface  vii  
1.
Parkinson's Law,
     or The Rising Pyramid  2 
2. The Will of the People,
     or Annual General Meeting  14 
3. High Finance,
     or The Point of Vanishing Interest  24 
4. Directors and
Councils,
     or Coefficient of Inefficiency  33 
5. The Short List,
     or Principles of Selection  45 
6. Plans and Plants,
     or The Administration Block  59 
7. Personality Screen,
     or The Cocktail Formula  70 
8. Injelititis,
     or Palsied Paralysis  78 
9. Palm Thatch to Packard,
     or A Formula for Success  91 
10. Pension Point,
     or The Age of Retirement  101 

     xi


1. PARKINSON'S LAW, OR THE RISING PYRAMID

     WORK EXPANDS  so as  to fill  the time available  for  its  completion.
General recognition  of this fact is shown  in the proverbial phrase  "It is
the busiest man who has time to spare." Thus, an elderly lady of leisure can
spend the entire day  in writing and dispatching a  postcard to her niece at
Bognor  Regis. An  hour will be  spent  in finding the postcard,  another in
hunting  for spectacles, half an hour in a search for  the address,  an hour
and a quarter in composition, and twenty minutes  in deciding whether or not
to take an umbrella when going to the mailbox in the next street.  The total
effort  that would occupy a busy man  for three minutes all told may in this
fashion leave another  person prostrate  after a  day of doubt, anxiety, and
toil.



     Granted  that work (and especially  paperwork) is thus  elastic  in its
demands on time, it is manifest that there need be little or no relationship
between the work  to be done and the  size of the staff to which  it  may be
assigned. A lack of real activity does not, of necessity, result in leisure.
A lack of occupation is not necessarily revealed by a manifest idleness. The
thing to be done swells in importance and complexity in a  direct ratio with
the time to be spent. This fact 2 is widely  recognized,  but less attention
has been paid to its  wider  implications, more  especially in the  field of
public  administration.  Politicians  and  taxpayers   have   assumed  (with
occasional  phases of  doubt)  that  a rising total in the  number  of civil
servants  must  reflect a growing  volume  of work to  be done.  Cynics,  in
questioning  this  belief,  have  3  imagined  that  the  multiplication  of
officials must have left  some  of them idle or all of them able to work for
shorter hours. But this is a  matter in which  faith and doubt seem  equally
misplaced. The fact is that the number  of the officials and the quantity of
the work are  not  related to each other at  all.  The rise  in the total of
those  employed is  governed by Parkinson's Law  and would  be much the same
whether the  volume  of  the  work  were  to  increase,  diminish,  or  even
disappear. The  importance  of Parkinson's Law lies in the fact that it is a
law of  growth based upon an analysis of the factors by which that growth is
controlled.
     The  validity  of  this  recently  discovered law must  rest mainly  on
statistical  proofs, which  will  follow.  Of  more interest to the  general
reader is the explanation of  the factors underlying the general tendency to
which   this  law  gives  definition.  Omitting  technicalities  (which  are
numerous) we  may distinguish  at the outset two  motive forces. They can be
represented  for  the present  purpose  by  two almost axiomatic statements,
thus: (1) "An  official wants to multiply  subordinates, not rivals" and (2)
"Officials make work for each other."
     To comprehend Factor 1,  we must picture a civil servant, called A, who
finds  himself overworked.  Whether this overwork is  real  or imaginary  is
immaterial,  but we should observe,  in  passing,  that  A's  sensation  (or
illusion)  might  easily  result from  his own decreasing  energy:  a normal
symptom of middle age. For this real or imagined overwork there are, broadly
speaking, three possible remedies.  He may resign; he  may ask to halve  the
work  with  a colleague  called  B;  he  may  demand the assistance  of  two
subordinates, to be called  C  and  D. There  is probably no  instance 4  in
history,  however,  of  A  choosing  any  but  the  third  alternative.   By
resignation he would lose his pension rights. By having B appointed,  on his
own level in the  hierarchy,  he would merely bring in a rival for promotion
to W's vacancy when W (at long last) retires.  So  A would rather have C and
D, junior men, below him. They will add to his consequence  and, by dividing
the work into two categories, as  between C and D, he will have the merit of
being the only man who  comprehends them both. It is essential to realize at
this  point that C and  D are, as it were,  inseparable. To  appoint C alone
would have been impossible. Why? Because C, if by himself, would  divide the
work with A and so assume almost the equal status that  has been  refused in
the  first  instance  to  B; a status the more  emphasized if C  is A's only
possible successor. Subordinates must  thus number two  or  more, each being
thus kept in order by fear of the other's  promotion.  When  C  complains in
turn of being overworked (as he certainly will) A will, with the concurrence
of C,  advise the appointment of  two assistants to help C. But he can  then
avert  internal  friction  only  by  advising  the  appointment of two  more
assistants to help D, whose position is much the same. With this recruitment
of E, F, G, and H the promotion of A is now practically certain.
     Seven officials are now doing what one did before. This is where Factor
2  comes  into operation. For these  seven  make so much work for each other
that all  are fully occupied and A is actually  working harder than ever. An
incoming document  may well  come before each  of them  in turn.  Official E
decides  that it falls  within  the province  of F, who places a draft reply
before C,  who amends it drastically before consulting D, who asks G to deal
with it. But G goes 5 on leave at this  point, handing the  file over to  H,
who drafts a minute  that is signed by D and returned to C,  who revises his
draft accordingly and lays the new version before A.
     What  does  A  do?  He  would  have every excuse  for signing the thing
unread, for he has many other matters on his mind. Knowing now that he is to
succeed W next year, he has to  decide whether C or D should succeed  to his
own office. He had  to agree to G's going  on leave even if not yet strictly
entitled  to it. He is worried whether H should not  have gone  instead, for
reasons of  health.  He has  looked  pale recently--  partly but  not solely
because of his domestic  troubles. Then there is the business of F's special
increment of salary for the period of the conference and E's application for
transfer  to the Ministry of Pensions. A has heard that D is in love  with a
married typist and  that G  and  F are no longer on speaking  terms-- no one
seems  to know why. So A might be  tempted to sign C's  draft and  have done
with it. But A is a conscientious man. Beset  as he is with problems created
by his  colleagues for  themselves and for him-- created by the mere fact of
these officials' existence-- he  is not the man  to shirk his duty. He reads
through the draft with care, deletes the fussy paragraphs  added by C and H,
and restores the thing back to the  form preferred in the first  instance by
the able (if quarrelsome) F. He corrects  the English-- none of  these young
men can write grammatically-- and  finally produces the same reply  he would
have written if officials C to H had never been born. Far  more  people have
taken far longer to produce the same  result. No one has been idle. All have
done  their best. And it is late  in the evening before A finally quits  his
office and begins  the return journey to  Ealing. The  last of 6 the  office
lights are  being  turned  off in the gathering dusk  that marks  the end of
another day's administrative  toil. Among the last to leave, A reflects with
bowed shoulders and a wry smile that late hours, like gray hairs,  are among
the penalties of success.
     From this  description of the factors at  work the student of political
science  will recognize  that  administrators  are  more or  less  bound  to
multiply. Nothing  has  yet  been said,  however, about  the  period of time
likely to elapse between the date of A's appointment and the date from which
we can calculate the pensionable  service  of H. Vast masses of  statistical
evidence  have  been collected and  it is from  a study of  this  data  that
Parkinson's Law has been deduced.  Space will not allow of detailed analysis
but the reader will be interested to know that research began in the British
Navy Estimates. These  were chosen because the  Admiralty's responsibilities
are  more easily measurable  than those  of, say,  the  Board  of Trade. The
question  is  merely one  of  numbers  and  tonnage.  Here  are some typical
figures. The Strength of the Navy in 1914 could be shown as 146,000 officers
and men, 3249 dockyard officials and clerks, and 57,000 dockyard workmen. By
1928 there  were only 100,000 officers and men and  only 62,439 workmen, but
the dockyard officials and clerks  by  then numbered  4558. As for warships,
the strength in 1928 was a mere fraction of what it had been in 1914-- fewer
than  20 capital  ships  in commission as  compared  with  62. Over the same
period the  Admiralty officials had increased in number  from 2000 to  3569,
providing (as was remarked) "a magnificent navy on  land." These figures are
more clearly set forth in tabular form. 7
     ADMIRALTY  STATISTICS  
  Year     Capital  ships  in
commission  Officers and men in R.N.  Dockyard workers  Dockyard
officials  and  clerks    Admiralty officials 
 1914  62
 146,000  57,000  3249  2000 
 1928  20 
100,000  62,439  4558  3569  
 Increase  or Decrease
 -67.74%  -31.5%  +9.54%  +40.28%  +78.45% 


     The criticism voiced  at  the time centered  on the ratio  between  the
numbers  of  those  available for  fighting  and  those available  only  for
administration. But that comparison is  not  to the present purpose. What we
have to note is that the 2000 officials of 1914 had become the 3569 of 1928;
and that this growth was  unrelated to any possible increase in  their work.
The Navy  during that period had diminished, in point of fact, by a third in
men and  two-thirds in  ships. Nor, from 1922  onward, was its strength even
expected to increase; for its total of ships (unlike its total of officials)
was limited by the Washington Naval Agreement  of  that year.  Here we  have
then a 78 per cent  increase over a period of  fourteen years; an average of
5.6 per cent increase a year on the earlier total. In fact, as we shall see,
the rate of increase was not as regular as that. All we have to consider, at
this stage, is the percentage rise over a given period.
     Can this rise  in the  total number  of civil servants be accounted for
except  on the  assumption  that such  a  total  must  always  rise by a law
governing its growth? It  might be urged at this point that the period under
discussion 8 9 was one  of rapid  development in naval technique. The use of
the flying  machine was  no  longer  confined  to  the eccentric. Electrical
devices were being multiplied  and  elaborated. Submarines were tolerated if
not  approved.  Engineer  officers were beginning to  be  regarded as almost
human. In  so revolutionary  an age we might expect that storekeepers  would
have more elaborate inventories to compile. We might not wonder to see  more
draughtsmen on the payroll, more designers, more technicians and scientists.
But these, the  dockyard officials, increased only by  40 per cent in number
when the men of Whitehall increased  their total by nearly 80 per cent.  For
every  new foreman or electrical engineer at Portsmouth there  had to be two
more  clerks  at Charing  Cross. From this we  might be tempted to conclude,
provisionally, that the  rate of increase in administrative staff is  likely
to be double that of the technical staff at  a time when the actually useful
strength (in this case, of seamen) is being reduced by 31.5 per cent. It has
been proved statistically, however, that this last percentage is irrelevant.
The officials would  have  multiplied at the  same rate had  there  been  no
actual seamen at all.
     It  would  be interesting to  follow the further  progress by which the
8118 Admiralty staff of 1935 came to number 33,788 by 1954. But the staff of
the  Colonial Office affords  a  better field  of study during a  period  of
imperial decline. Admiralty statistics are  complicated by factors (like the
Fleet Air Arm) that make  comparison difficult as between one  year and  the
next. The Colonial  Office growth is  more significant  in that  it  is more
purely administrative. Here the relevant statistics are as follows: 10


 
 1935    1939  1943  1947  1954 
 372
 450  817  1139  1661 


     Before showing  what the rate of increase is, we must observe  that the
extent  of this department's responsibilities was  far from  constant during
these twenty  years. The colonial territories were  not much altered in area
or  population between 1935  and 1939. They were  considerably diminished by
1943, certain areas being in enemy hands. They were increased again in 1947,
but have since then shrunk steadily from year to year as successive colonies
achieve self-government.  It would be rational to suppose that these changes
in  the scope of Empire  would  be  reflected  in  the  size of its  central
administration. But  a  glance at the figures  is enough to convince us that
the  staff  totals represent  nothing but  so many stages  in an  inevitable
increase.  And  this increase, although  related to that observed  in  other
departments, has nothing to  do with  the  size-- or even the existence-- of
the Empire.  What are the percentages of increase? We must ignore, for  this
purpose,  the  rapid  increase in staff  which accompanied the diminution of
responsibility during World  War II.  We should note rather,  the  peacetime
rates of  increase: over 5.24 per cent between 1935 and  1939, and  6.55 per
cent between  1947 and 1954. This gives an average increase of 5.89 per cent
each year, a  percentage  markedly  similar  to  that  already found  in the
Admiralty staff increase between 1914 and 1928.
     Further and  detailed statistical analysis of departmental staffs would
be inappropriate in such a work as this. It 11 is hoped, however, to reach a
tentative conclusion regarding the time  likely to  elapse  between a  given
official's first appointment and the  later  appointment of his two  or more
assistants.
     Dealing with the problem of pure staff accumulation, all our researches
so far completed  point  to  an average  increase of 5.75 per cent per year.
This fact established, it  now becomes possible to state  Parkinson's Law in
mathematical form: In  any  public administrative department not actually at
war, the staff increase may be expected to follow this formula--

x=(2km+l)/n

k is  the  number  of  staff seeking promotion  through  the appointment  of
subordinates;  l represents the  difference between the ages  of appointment
and retirement; m is the  number of man-hours devoted to  answering  minutes
within  the  department;  and  n is the  number  of  effective  units  being
administered.  x  will  be  the  number  of  new  staff  required each year.
Mathematicians will realize, of course, that to find the percentage increase
they  must multiply x by 100 and  divide by the total  of the previous year,
thus:

100 (2km+l)/y n %

where  y represents  the  total original staff.  This figure will invariably
prove  to be  between 5.17  per cent and 6.56 per cent, irrespective of  any
variation in the amount of work (if any) to be done. 12
     The discovery of this formula and of the general principles  upon which
it is based has, of course, no political value. No attempt  has been made to
inquire whether departments ought to grow in  size. Those who hold that this
growth  is  essential to  gain full employment are  fully entitled  to their
opinion. Those who doubt the stability of an economy based upon reading each
other's  minutes are equally  entitled  to  theirs.  It  would  probably  be
premature to attempt at this stage  any inquiry into the quantitative  ratio
that should exist between the administrators and the administered.  Granted,
however, that  a  maximum ratio  exists,  it  should  soon  be  possible  to
ascertain by formula  how many years will  elapse before that  ratio, in any
given  community,  will be  reached. The forecasting  of such a result  will
again  have  no  political value. Nor can it be sufficiently emphasized that
Parkinson's  Law is a purely  scientific  discovery, inapplicable  except in
theory to the politics of the day. It is not the business of the botanist to
eradicate  the weeds. Enough  for him  if  he can tell us just how fast they
grow. 13






     WE  ARE  ALL  familiar with the basic difference  between  English  and
French   parliamentary  institutions;  copied  respectively  by  such  other
assemblies as derive from each. We all realize that this main difference has
nothing to do with national temperament, but stems from their seating plans.
The British, being brought up on team games, enter their House of Commons in
the spirit of those who would rather be doing something else. If they cannot
be playing golf or tennis, they can at least pretend that politics is a game
with very  similar rules. But for this  device, Parliament would arouse even
less interest  than it does. So the British instinct is to form two opposing
teams, with  referee  and linesmen, and let them  debate until  they exhaust
themselves. The House  of Commons  is so arranged that the individual Member
is practically compelled  to take one side or the other before he knows what
the arguments are, or even  (in some  cases) before he  knows the subject of
the dispute. His training from birth has been to play for his side, and this
saves him from any undue mental effort. Sliding  into a seat toward the  end
of a speech, he knows exactly how to take up the argument from the  point it
has 14 reached. If the speaker is on  his own side of the House, he will say
"Hear, hear!" If he is on the opposite side, he can  safely say  "Shame!" or
merely "Oh!" At some later stage  he may have time  to ask his neighbor what
the debate is supposed  to be about. Strictly speaking, however, there is no
need for him to do this.  He  knows enough in any case not to kick into  his
own  goal.  The men  who  sit  opposite  are entirely wrong  and  all  their
arguments  are so much drivel. The men on his own side are statesmanlike, by
contrast,  and their speeches a  singular blend  of  wisdom, eloquence,  and
moderation. Nor does it make the slightest difference whether he learned his
politics at Harrow or in following the fortunes  of Aston Villa.  In  either
school he will have learned when to cheer and when to groan. But the British
system depends entirely on  its  seating plan. If  the benches did not  face
each other,  no one  could  tell truth from falsehood-- wisdom  from folly--
unless indeed  15 by listening to it all. But to  listen to it all would  be
ridiculous, for half the speeches must of necessity be nonsense.



     In  France the initial mistake was made  of seating the representatives
in a semicircle, all facing  the  chair. The  resulting confusion  could  be
imagined if it were  not notorious. No real opposing  teams could be  formed
and no  one  could  tell  (without  listening)  which argument  was the more
cogent.  There  was the further handicap of  all  the  proceedings  being in
French--  an  example  the United States wisely refused to  follow. But  the
French  system is  bad enough even  when the linguistic difficulty does  not
arise. Instead  of having two sides, one in  the right and  the other in the
wrong-- so that the  issue is  clear  from  the  outset-- the French form  a
multitude of  teams  facing  in  all  directions.  With the  field  in  such
confusion, the game cannot even begin. Basically  their  representatives are
of the Right  or  of  the  Left, according  to where  they  sit.  This is  a
perfectly  sound scheme. The French have not gone to the extreme of  seating
people in alphabetical order. But the semicircular chamber allows of  subtle
distinctions between the various degrees of tightness and leftness. There is
none of the clear-cut  British distinction between rightness and  wrongness.
One deputy  is  described, politically, as to the left of Monsieur Untel but
well to the  right of Monsieur Quelquechose. What is anyone to make of that?
What  should  we  make  of  it even in  English? What do  they  make  of  it
themselves? The answer is, "Nothing."
     All this is generally known. What is less generally recognized is  that
the paramount importance of the seating 16 plan applies to  other assemblies
and meetings, international, national, and local.  It applies,  moreover, to
meetings round a table such as occur at a Round Table Conference. A moment's
thought  will  convince us that a Square Table Conference would be something
totally  different  and  a Long Table  Conference would be  different again.
These differences do  not  merely  affect  the length and  acrimony  of  the
discussion;  they also affect what  (if anything) is decided.  Rarely, as we
know, will the voting  relate to the merits  of the case. The final decision
is influenced by a variety of  factors, few of which need concern  us at the
moment. We should note, however,  that the issue is actually decided, in the
end, by the votes of the center bloc. This would not be true in the House of
Commons, where no such bloc is allowed to develop. But at  other conferences
the  center  bloc  is all  important. This bloc  essentially  comprises  the
following elements:
     a. Those who have failed to master  any one of the memoranda written in
advance and  showered weeks beforehand on all those who  are expected to  be
present.
     b. Those who are too stupid to follow the proceedings at all. These are
readily distinguishable by their tendency to mutter to each other:  "What is
the fellow talking about?"
     c. Those who are  deaf.  They sit with their hands  cupping their ears,
growling "I wish people would speak up."
     d. Those  who  were  dead drunk in  the small hours and have turned  up
(heaven knows why)  with a  splitting headache and a conviction that nothing
matters either way.
     e. The senile, whose chief  pride is in being as  fit as  ever-- fitter
indeed than  a lot of these younger men. "I  17 walked here,"  they whisper.
"Pretty good for a man of eighty-two, what?"
     f. The feeble, who have weakly promised to support both sides and don't
know what to do  about it. They are  of two minds as  to whether they should
abstain from voting or pretend to be sick.
     Toward  capturing  the votes  of the center  bloc  the first step is to
identify and count the members.  That done, everything else depends on where
they  are to sit. The best technique is to detail  off  known  and  stalwart
supporters to  enter  into  conversation with named middle-bloc types before
the meeting actually begins. In this  preliminary chat  the  stalwarts  will
carefully avoid mentioning the main subject of debate. They  will be trained
to  use the opening  gambits listed below, corresponding to the categories a
to f, into which the middle bloc naturally falls:
     a. "Waste  of time, I  call it, producing all these  documents.  I have
thrown most of mine away."
     b. "I expect we shall be dazzled by eloquence before long. I often wish
people would talk less and come to  the  point. They are too clever by half,
if you ask me."
     c. "The acoustics  of  this hall  are  simply terrible. You would  have
thought  these scientific chaps  could  do something about it. For  half the
time I CAN'T HEAR WHAT IS BEING SAID. CAN YOU?"
     d. "What a rotten place to meet! I think there is something the  matter
with the ventilation. It makes me feel almost unwell. What about you?"
     e. "My goodness, I don't know how you do it!  Tell me the secret. Is it
what you have for breakfast?"
     f. "There's so much to  be said on both sides of the 18 question that I
really don't know which side to support. What do you feel about it?"
     If  these gambits  are correctly  played,  each  stalwart will  start a
lively conversation, in the midst of which he will steer his middle-blocsman
toward the forum. As he does this, another stalwart will place himself  just
ahead of the  pair  and  moving  in  the same direction.  The drill is  best
illustrated by  a concrete example.  We will  suppose that stalwart  X  (Mr.
Sturdy) is  steering middle-blocsman Y (Mr.  Waverley, type f) toward a seat
near the front. Ahead goes stalwart Z (Mr. Staunch), who  presently  takes a
seat without appearing to notice the two men following him. Staunch turns in
the opposite direction and waves to someone  in the distance. Then he  leans
over to  make a few remarks to the man  in  front of him. Only when Waverley
has sat  down will Staunch  presently  turn  toward  him and  say, "My  dear
fellow-- how  nice to see you!" Only some  minutes later again will he catch
sight of Sturdy and start visibly  with  surprise. "Hallo, Sturdy-- I didn't
think you would be here!" "I've recovered now," replies Sturdy. "It was only
a chill."  The seating order is  thus made to appear completely  accidental,
casual, and friendly. That completes Phase I of the operation, and  it would
be much the same whatever the exact category in which the middle-blocsman is
believed to fall.
     Phase II has to be adjusted according to the character of the man to be
influenced. In the  case of Waverley (Type  f) the object in  Phase II is to
avoid any  discussion of the matter at issue but  to produce the  impression
that the thing is already decided.  Seated near the  front, Waverley will be
unable to see much of  the other members and 19  can be given the impression
that they practically all think alike.
     "Really," says  Sturdy, "I don't know why I  bothered to come. I gather
that Item Four  is  pretty well agreed. All the fellows I meet seem  to have
made up their minds to vote for it." (Or against it, as the case may be.)
     "Curious," says  Staunch.  "I was just going to say the same thing. The
issue hardly seems to be in doubt."



     "I had not really made up my own mind," says Sturdy. 20 "There was much
to be said on either side. But  opposition would really be a waste of  time.
What do you think, Waverley?"
     "Well,"  says Waverley, "I must admit  that I find the  question rather
baffling. On the one hand, there is good reason  to  agree to the motion ...
As against that... Do you think it will pass?"
     "My dear Waverley, I would trust your judgment in this. You were saying
just now that it is already agreed." 21
     "Oh, was I? Well, there does  seem to  be a majority. ...  Or perhaps I
should say ..."
     "Thank you, Waverley," says Staunch, "for  your opinion.  I think  just
the same but am particularly interested to find you agree with me. There  is
no one whose opinion I value more."
     Sturdy,  meanwhile,  is  leaning  over to  talk to  someone in the  row
behind. What he actually  says, in a  low voice, is this, "How  is your wife
now? Is she out of hospital?" When he turns  back again, however,  it is  to
announce that the people behind all think the same. The motion is as good as
passed. And so it is if the drill goes according to plan.
     While  the other  side has been busy  preparing  speeches  and phrasing
amendments, the  side with  the superior technique will have concentrated on
pinning  each  middle-blocsman  between two  reliable supporters.  When  the
crucial moment comes,  the raising of a hand on either side will practically
compel  the waverer to follow suit. Should he be  actually asleep,  as often
happens with middle-blocsman in categories d and e, his hand will  be raised
for him by the member on his right. This rule is merely  to obviate both his
hands  being raised, a gesture  that has  been known to  attract unfavorable
comment. With the middle bloc  thus secured, the motion will be carried with
a  comfortable margin; or  else rejected, if that is  thought preferable. In
nearly every matter of controversy to be decided  by the will of the people,
we can  assume that the people who  will  decide are members of  the  middle
bloc.  Delivery of speeches is therefore a waste of time. The one party will
never agree and  the other  party has agreed 22 already. Remains  the middle
bloc, the  members of which divide into those who cannot hear  what is being
said and those who would not understand it even if they did. To secure their
votes what  is needed is primarily  the example  of others voting  on either
side of  them. Their  votes can thus be swayed by accident. How much better,
by contrast, to sway them by design! 23






     PEOPLE WHO understand  high  finance are of two  kinds: those who  have
vast fortunes of their own and those who have  nothing at all. To the actual
millionaire a  million dollars  is something real and comprehensible. To the
applied mathematician and the  lecturer  in  economics (assuming both to  be
practically starving) a million  dollars is at  least as real as a thousand,
they having never  possessed either sum. But the world is full of people who
fall  between these  two  categories, knowing nothing  of millions but  well
accustomed to think in thousands, and it is of these that finance committees
are  mostly comprised.  The  result  is  a phenomenon  that  has  often been
observed but  never  yet  investigated.  It  might  be  termed  the  Law  of
Triviality. Briefly  stated, it means that the time spent on any item of the
agenda will be in inverse proportion to the sum involved.
     On  second  thoughts,  the  statement that  this  law  has  never  been
investigated is not entirely  accurate. Some work has actually been  done in
this  field,  but the investigators pursued  a line of inquiry that led them
nowhere. They  assumed that the greatest significance  should attach  to the
order in which items of the agenda are taken. They assumed, 24 further, that
most of the  available time will be spent on items one to seven and that the
later items will be allowed automatically to pass. The result is well known.
The  derision with  which  Dr.  Guggenheim's  lecture was  received  at  the
Muttworth Conference may have been  thought  excessive  at the time, but all
further discussions on this topic have  tended to show that his critics were
right. Years had  been wasted  in a  research of which the basic assumptions
were  wrong.  We  realize  now  that  position  on  the agenda  is  a  minor
consideration, so far,  at least, as this problem is  concerned. We consider
also that Dr.  Guggenheim  was lucky to escape as he  did, in his underwear.
Had he  dared to  put his  lame conclusions before the later  conference  in
September, he would have  faced something more than derision. The view would
have been taken that he was deliberately wasting time.
     If we are to make further progress in this investigation we must ignore
all that has so far been done. We must start at the beginning and understand
fully the way in which  a finance  committee actually works. For the sake of
the general reader this can be put in dramatic form thus:

Chairman We come now to Item Nine. Our Treasurer, Mr. McPhail, will report.

Mr.  McPhail The estimate for  the Atomic Reactor is  before  you,  sir, set
forth in  Appendix  H  of  the subcommittee's report.  You will see that the
general  design and layout  has been approved  by  Professor  McFission. The
total  cost will amount to $10,000,000. The  contractors, Messrs. McNab  and
McHash,  consider that the  work should  be complete 25 by  April, 1959. Mr.
McFee,  the consulting  engineer,  warns  us  that  we should  not count  on
completion before October, at the earliest. In  this view he is supported by
Dr. McHeap, the well-known geophysicist, who refers to the probable need for
piling at the lower end of the site. The plan of the main building is before
you-- see  Appendix  IX-- and the blueprint is laid on the table. I shall be
glad to give  any  further  information that  members of this  committee may
require.

Chairman Thank you, Mr. McPhail, for your very lucid explanation of the plan
as proposed. I will now invite the members present to give us their views.

     It  is  necessary  to pause at this point and  consider what  views the
members  are  likely  to  have.  Let  us  suppose  that  they number eleven,
including the Chairman but excluding the Secretary. Of these eleven members,
four-- including the  chairman-- do  not  know  what  a reactor  is.  Of the
remainder, three do not know what it is for. Of those who know  its purpose,
only  two have the least idea of what  it  should cost. One of these  is Mr.
Isaacson,  the  other is  Mr.  Brickworth.  Either is in a  position  to say
something. We may suppose that Mr. Isaacson is the first to speak.

Mr. Isaacson Well, Mr. Chairman. I could wish that I felt more confidence in
our contractors and consultant. Had we  gone  to Professor Levi in the first
instance,  and had the  contract been given to Messrs. David and  Goliath, I
should have  been happier about the whole scheme. Mr. Lyon-Daniels would not
have  wasted  our  time  with wild  guesses  about  the  possible  delay  in
completion,  and Dr. 26 Moses Bullrush would have told us definitely whether
piling would be wanted or not.

Chairman I am sure we all appreciate Mr. Isaacson's anxiety to complete this
work in the best possible  way.  I feel, however, that it is rather  late in
the day to call in  new technical advisers.  I admit that the main  contract
has  still to be signed, but we have already  spent  very large sums.  If we
reject the  advice  for which  we have  paid, we  shall have  to pay as much
again.

(Other members murmur agreement.)

Mr. Isaacson I should like my observation to be minuted.

Chairman Certainly. Perhaps Mr. Brickworth also has something to say on this
matter?

     Now Mr. Brickworth is  almost the only  man there who knows  what he is
talking about. There is a great deal  he could  say. He distrusts that round
figure of $10,000,000. Why should it come out to exactly that? Why need they
demolish the old building to make room for the new approach? Why is so large
a sum set aside for "contingencies"? And who is  McHeap,  anyway? Is he  the
man who was  sued last year by the Trickle and Driedup Oil Corporation?  But
Brickworth does  not know where to begin. The  other members could  not read
the blueprint  if he referred to  it.  He  would have to begin by explaining
what a reactor is and no one there would admit that he did not already know.
Better to say nothing. 27

Mr. Brickworth I have no comment to make.

Chairman Does any other member wish to speak? Very well. I may  take it then
that the  plans and estimates are  approved? Thank  you.  May I now sign the
main contract on your  behalf? (Murmur  of agreement) Thank you. We  can now
move on to Item Ten.



     Allowing a  few seconds for rustling papers and unrolling diagrams, the
time  spent  on  Item Nine will have  been just two minutes and a  half. The
meeting is going well. But 28 some members feel uneasy about Item Nine. They
wonder  inwardly whether they have  really been pulling  their weight. It is
too late to  query  that reactor scheme, but they would like to demonstrate,
before the meeting ends, that they are alive to all that is going on.

Chairman  Item Ten.  Bicycle  shed for  the  use of  the clerical  staff. An
estimate has been  received  from Messrs. Bodger and Woodworm, who undertake
to  complete the work  for  the sum  of  $2350. Plans and  specification are
before you, gentlemen.

Mr. Softleigh Surely, Mr. Chairman, this sum is excessive.  I note that  the
roof is to be of aluminum. Would not asbestos be cheaper?

Mr. Holdfast I agree with Mr. Softleigh about the cost, but the roof should,
in my opinion, be of galvanized iron. I incline to think that the shed could
be built for $2000, or even less.

Mr. Daring I would go further, Mr. Chairman. I question whether this shed is
really  necessary.  We do too  much  for our staff as it is.  They are never
satisfied, that is the trouble. They will be wanting garages next.

Mr. Holdfast No, I can't support Mr. Daring on this occasion.  I think  that
the shed is needed. It is a question of material and cost...

     The  debate  is  fairly  launched.  A  sum  of  $2350  is  well  within
everybody's comprehension. Everyone can visualize a bicycle shed. Discussion
goes on, therefore, for forty-five  29 minutes, with  the possible result of
saving some $300. Members at length sit back with a feeling of achievement.

Chairman Item Eleven. Refreshments supplied at meetings of the Joint Welfare
Committee. Monthly, $4.75.

Mr. Softleigh What type of refreshment is supplied on these occasions?

Chairman Coffee, I understand.

Mr. Holdfast And this means an annual charge of-- let me see-- $57?

Chairman That is so.

Mr. Daring Well, really, Mr. Chairman. I question whether this is justified.
How long do these meetings last?

     Now begins an even more acrimonious debate. There may be members of the
committee  who  might  fail  to distinguish between asbestos  and galvanized
iron, but every man there knows about coffee--  what it is, how it should be
made, where it should be bought--  and whether indeed it should be bought at
all.  This  item on the agenda will  occupy the  members for an hour  and  a
quarter,  and  they will end  by  asking  the Secretary  to procure  further
information, leaving the matter to be decided at the next meeting.
     It would be natural to ask at this  point whether a still smaller sum--
$20,   perhaps,   or  $10--  would  occupy  the  Finance  Committee  for   a
proportionately longer  time. On  this point,  it  must be  admitted, we are
still  ignorant. Our tentative conclusion  must be  that there is a point at
which  the whole tendency is reversed,  the  committee members 30 concluding
that the sum is  beneath  their notice. Research has still to  establish the
point at which this reversal occurs. The transition from the $50  debate (an
hour and a quarter) to the $20 debate (two and a  half minutes) is indeed an
abrupt one. It would be the more interesting to establish the exact point at
which it occurs.  More than that, it would be of practical value. Supposing,
for example,  that the point of vanishing interest is represented by the sum
of $35, the Treasurer with an item of $62.80 on the agenda might well decide
to present  it as two items, one of $30.00 and  the other of $32.80, with an
evident saving in time and effort.



     31  Conclusions at this juncture  can be merely tentative, but there is
some reason  to suppose that the point  of vanishing interest represents the
sum the individual committee member is willing to lose on a bet or subscribe
to a charity. An  inquiry on  these  lines conducted on racecourses  and  in
Methodist chapels,  might  go  far  toward  solving the problem. Far greater
difficulty may  be encountered in attempting to  discover the exact point at
which the sum involved  becomes  too  large  to discuss  at all.  One  thing
apparent, however, is that the time spent on $10,000,000 and on $10 may well
prove to  be the same. The present estimated time of two and a  half minutes
is  by no means  exact, but  there is  clearly  a space of  time-- something
between two and  four and a half  minutes--  which suffices equally  for the
largest and the smallest sums.
     Much further investigation remains to be  done, but the  final results,
when published,  cannot fail  to  be of absorbing interest and of  immediate
value to mankind. 32






     THE LIFE CYCLE of the committee is so basic to our knowledge of current
affairs that  it is surprising  more  attention has not  been  paid  to  the
science  of comitology.  The  first and  most elementary  principle  of this
science is that a committee is organic rather than mechanical in its nature:
it  is  not a structure but  a plant.  It  takes root and grows, it flowers,
wilts,  and dies, scattering the seed from which other committees will bloom
in  their turn.  Only those  who bear this principle in  mind  can make real
headway in understanding the structure and history of modern government.
     Committees,  it is nowadays accepted, fall broadly into two categories,
those (a) from which the individual member has something to gain;  and those
(b)  to which  the individual  member  merely has  something  to contribute.
Examples  of  the  B  group,  however,  are  relatively unimportant  for our
purpose;  indeed some people doubt whether they are committees at all. It is
from the  more robust A group that  we can learn most readily the principles
which are common (with modifications) to all. Of the A group the most deeply
rooted and luxuriant  committees  are those  which confer the most power and
prestige upon their members. 33 In most parts of the world these  committees
are called  "cabinets."  This  chapter is  based  on an extensive  study  of
national cabinets, over space and time.
     When  first  examined under the microscope, the cabinet council usually
appears-- to  comitologists, historians, and even to  the people who appoint
cabinets-- to consist ideally of five. With that number the plant is viable,
allowing for two members to be absent or sick at any one time. Five  members
are easy to  collect  and, when collected, can act with competence, secrecy,
and  speed. Of these original members four may well be versed, respectively,
in finance, foreign policy, defense, and law. The  fifth,  who has failed to
master  any  of  these  subjects,  usually  becomes  the  chairman  or prime
minister. 34



     35  Whatever  the  apparent convenience  might  be of  restricting  the
membership  to five,  however,  we  discover  by observation that the  total
number  soon  rises  to  seven  or  nine.  The  usual excuse given for  this
increase,  which  is almost invariable (exceptions  being found, however, in
Luxembourg  and Honduras), is the  need for special knowledge on  more  than
four  topics.  In fact, however, there is another and more potent reason for
adding to the team. For in a cabinet of nine it will be found that policy is
made by three, information supplied by two, and financial warning uttered by
one. With  the  neutral chairman, that  accounts for seven,  the  other  two
appearing at first glance to be merely ornamental. This allocation of duties
was first noted in Britain in about 1639, but there can be no doubt that the
folly of including more than  three able and talkative men  in one committee
had  been  discovered long  before  then. We know little  as  yet about  the
function of the two silent members but we have good reason to believe that a
cabinet,  in this  second stage of development, might be unworkable  without
them.
     There are cabinets in the world (those of Costa Rica, Ecuador, Northern
Ireland,  Liberia, the  Philippines,  Uruguay, and  Panama will  at  once be
called  to mind) which  have remained  in this second  stage-- that is, have
restricted  their  membership  to  nine.  These  remain,  however,  a  small
minority. Elsewhere  and in larger territories cabinets  have generally been
subject to a law of growth. Other members come to be admitted,  some with  a
claim to  special  knowledge  but more because of their  nuisance value when
excluded. Their opposition can be silenced only by implicating them in every
decision  that is made. As they 36 are brought in (and  placated) one  after
another, the total membership rises from ten  toward twenty.  In  this third
stage of cabinets, there are already considerable drawbacks.
     The most immediately obvious of these disadvantages  is the  difficulty
of assembling people at the same place, date, and time. One member  is going
away on the 18th, whereas another does not return until the 21st. A third is
never free on Tuesdays, and a fourth never available  before 5 P.M. But that
is only the beginning  of the trouble, for, once most of them are collected,
there is a far greater  chance of members  proving to be  elderly, tiresome,
inaudible, and deaf. Relatively few were chosen from any  idea that they are
or could  be or have  ever been  useful.  A majority perhaps were brought in
merely to  conciliate  some outside group. Their  tendency is  therefore  to
report what happens  to the group  they represent. All secrecy  is lost and,
worst of all,  members  begin to prepare  their speeches. They  address  the
meeting and tell  their friends afterwards about what they imagine they have
said.  But the more these  merely representative members  assert themselves,
the  more loudly do other outside groups clamor for representation. Internal
parties form and seek to  gain strength by further recruitment. The total of
twenty  is reached  and  passed.  And thereby, quite  suddenly,  the cabinet
enters the fourth and final stage of its history.
     For at this  point of cabinet development  (between 20 and  22 members)
the whole committee suffers an abrupt organic or chemical change. The nature
of this change is easy to trace and comprehend. In the first place, the five
members who matter  will  have taken to meeting  beforehand. With  decisions
already reached, little remains for 37 the  nominal executive to do. And, as
a  consequence of this, all resistance to the committee's expansion comes to
an end. More members  will not waste more time; for the whole meeting is, in
any case, a  waste of time. So the pressure of outside groups is temporarily
satisfied by the  admission of their representatives, and decades may elapse
before  they realize how illusory their gain has been. With  the doors  wide
open, membership  rises from 20 to 30,  from 30 to 40. There may soon be  an
instance of such a membership reaching the thousand mark. But this does  not
matter.  For  the cabinet has  already ceased to be a real cabinet, and  has
been succeeded in its old functions by some other body.
     Five  times in  English history the  plant has  moved through  its life
cycle. It would admittedly be difficult to prove  that the first incarnation
of  the cabinet-- the English  Council of the Crown, now called the House of
Lords-- ever had a membership as small  as  five. When we first hear  of it,
indeed, its more intimate character had already been lost, with a hereditary
membership varying from  29 to  50. Its subsequent expansion,  however, kept
pace with its loss of power. In round figures,  it  had 60 members  in 1601,
140 in 1661, 220 in 1760, 400 in 1850, 650 in 1911, and 850 in 1952.
     At what point in this progression did the inner committee appear in the
womb of the peerage? It appeared in about 1257, its members being called the
Lords of  the King's Council and numbering  less  than 10. They numbered  no
more  than 11 in 1378,  and  as  few still in 1410. Then, from  the reign of
Henry V, they began to multiply. The 20 of 1433 had  become the 41 of  1504,
the total reaching 172 before the council finally ceased to meet. 38
     Within  the  King's  Council  there  developed  the   cabinet's   third
incarnation--  the Privy Council--  with  an original membership of nine. It
rose to 20 in 1540, to 29 in 1547, and to 44  in 1558. The Privy Council  as
it  ceased  to be  effective increased  proportionately in  size.  It had 47
members in 1679, 67 in 1723, 200 in 1902, and 300 in 1951.
     Within the Privy Council there developed the  junto or Cabinet Council,
which effectively superseded the former  in about 1615.  Numbering 8 when we
first hear of it, its members had come to number 12 by about 1700, and 20 by
1725.  The  Cabinet Council  was then superseded in about  1740  by an inner
group, since  called simply  the Cabinet. Its development is best studied in
tabular form. This is shown in Table I.

     TABLE I-- GROWTH OF THE ENGLISH CABINET 
 
   1740   5
 1885  16  1945   16 
  1784  7  1900  20
 1945  20 
  1801  12  1915  22  1949  17

  1841  14  1935  22  1954  18 
 
     
      1939  23 
     
     


     From 1939,  it will be apparent, there has been a struggle to save this
institution; a  struggle similar  to  the  attempts made to save  the  Privy
Council during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I. The Cabinet appeared to be in
its decline in 1940, with an inner cabinet (of 5, 7, or 9 members) ready  to
take its place. The  issue,  however, remains in doubt.  It is just possible
that the British cabinet is still an important body.
     Compared  with the  cabinet  of Britain, the cabinet  of the  39 United
States  has shown an extraordinary resistance to political inflation. It had
the  appropriate number  of 5  members in  1789, still only 7 by 1840, 9  by
1901, 10 by 1913, 11 by  1945, and then--  against tradition-- had come down
to 10 again  by 1953. Whether this  attempt, begun  in 1947, to restrict the
membership will succeed for long is  doubtful. All experience would  suggest
the inevitability of the previous trend. In the meanwhile, the United States
enjoys    (with   Guatemala   and    El   Salvador)   a    reputation    for
cabinet-exclusiveness,  having  actually  fewer   cabinet   ministers   than
Nicaragua or Paraguay.

     TABLE II - SIZE OF CABINETS 
 No. of Members 

6   Honduras, Luxembourg  
  7    Haiti, Iceland, Switzerland

  9     Costa  Rica,  Ecuador,  N.   Ireland,  Liberia,  Panama,
Philippines, Uruguay  
 10  Guatemala, El Salvador, United States

 11    Brazil,  Nicaragua, Pakistan, Paraguay  
 12  
Bolivia,  Chile,  Peru  
  13   Colombia, Dominican  R.,  Norway,
Thailand 
 14  Denmark, India, S. Africa, Sweden 
 15 
Austria, Belgium,  Finland, Iran, New Zealand,  Portugal, Venezuela 

16   Iraq, Netherlands,  Turkey  
 17    Eire, Israel,  Spain

  18  Egypt, Gt.  Britain, Mexico 
 19   W.  Germany,
Greece, Indonesia, Italy 
 20  Australia, Formosa, Japan 

21  Argentina, Burma, Canada, France 
 22   China 
 24
 E. Germany 
  26  Bulgaria 
 27  Cuba 
 29
 Rumania 
  32    Czechoslovakia 
 35   Yugoslavia

 38  USSR 


     How  do  other countries  compare  in  this  respect? The  majority  of
non-totalitarian  countries  have  cabinets  that number between  12 and  20
members. Taking the average 40  of over 60 countries, we find that it  comes
to over  16; the most popular  numbers are 15 (seven instances) and 9 (seven
again).  Easily  the queerest cabinet is that of New  Zealand, one member of
which has  to be  announced  as  "Minister  of Lands,  Minister  of Forests,
Minister of Maori  Affairs, Minister in  charge of Maori Trust Office and of
Scenery  Preservation."  The toastmaster at  a  New  Zealand banquet must be
equally  ready  to  crave  silence  for  "The Minister of  Health,  Minister
Assistant  to the  Prime Minister,  Minister  in  Charge of  State  Advances
Corporation,  Census,  and  Statistics Department, Public Trust  Office  and
Publicity  and Information."  In  other  lands this  oriental  profusion  is
fortunately rare.
     A  study  of the British  example  would  suggest  that  the  point  of
ineffectiveness in a cabinet is reached when the total membership exceeds 20
or  perhaps 21. The  Council  of the Crown,  the  King's  Council, the Privy
Council had  each passed  the 20 mark when  their decline began. The present
British cabinet is just short  of that  number now, having recoiled from the
abyss. We  might be tempted  to  conclude from this that cabinets-- or other
committees  --  with  a membership in excess of 21 are losing the reality of
power and  that those with a larger membership have already lost it. No such
theory can be  tenable, however, without statistical  proof. Table II on the
preceding page attempts to furnish part of it.
     Should we be justified  in drawing a  line in that table under the name
of France (21 cabinet members)  with an explanatory  note  to  say that  the
cabinet  is  not the real power in countries  shown  below that  line?  Some
comitologists would accept  that  conclusion  without  further 41  research.
Others  emphasize the need for careful investigation, more especially around
the  borderline  of  21. But that the coefficient  of inefficiency must  lie
between 19 and 22 is now very generally agreed.
     What tentative explanation  can we offer  for  this hypothesis? Here we
must  distinguish sharply between  fact and theory, between the symptom  and
the disease. About the most obvious symptom there is little disagreement. It
is known  that with over  20  members present  a  meeting begins  to  change
character. Conversations develop separately at either  end of the table.  To
make himself heard, the member has therefore  to  rise. Once on his feet, he
cannot help making a speech, if only from force of habit. "Mr. Chairman," he
will begin, "I think I may assert without fear of contradiction-- and  I  am
speaking  now from twenty-five (I might almost say  twenty-seven)  years  of
experience-- that  we  must view this  matter  in the gravest light. A heavy
responsibility  rests upon us, sir, and I for one..." Amid  all this  drivel
the useful men present, if there are any, exchange  little notes  that read,
"Lunch with me tomorrow-- we'll fix it then."
     What else can they  do? The voice drones  on  interminably.  The orator
might just as well be talking in his sleep. The committee of which he is the
most useless member has ceased to matter. It is finished. It is hopeless. It
is dead.
     So much is certain. But the root  cause  of the trouble goes deeper and
has still, in part, to be explored. Too many vital factors are unknown. What
is the  shape  and  size of the  table? What  is  the  average  age of those
present? At  what  hour  does  the  committee meet?  In  a  book for the  42
non-specialist it would be absurd  to repeat the  calculations by  which the
first and tentative coefficient of inefficiency has been reached. It  should
be enough to state  that prolonged research  at the  Institute of Comitology
has given rise  to a formula which is now widely (although not  universally)
accepted by  the experts in this field. It should perhaps be explained  that
the  investigators assumed  a temperate climate, leather-padded chairs and a
high level of sobriety. On this basis, the formula is as follows:

x=(mo(a-d))/(y+p b1/2)

Where m = the average number  of members actually present; o = the number of
members influenced by outside pressure  groups;  a = the  average age of the
members;  d  =  the distance in centimeters  between the two members who are
seated farthest from each other; y  = the number of years since the  cabinet
or committee was first formed; p = the patience of the chairman, as measured
on the Peabody scale;  b = the  average blood pressure of  the three  oldest
members,  taken shortly before the time of meeting.  Then x = the number  of
members effectively present at the moment when the efficient  working of the
cabinet or other  committee has  become manifestly impossible.  This  is the
coefficient of  inefficiency and it is found to lie between  19.9 and  22.4.
(The  decimals  represent partial attendance; those absent for a part of the
meeting.)
     It  would be  unsound  to conclude, from a  cursory inspection of  this
equation that  the  science  of  comitology  is  in  an  advanced  state  of
development. Comitologists and subcomitologists would make no such claim, if
only  from 43  fear  of  unemployment.  They emphasize, rather,  that  their
studies have  barely  begun and that  they are  on the brink  of  astounding
progress. Making every allowance for self-interest-- which means discounting
90 per cent of what they say--  we can safely assume  that much work remains
to do.
     We should  eventually be able,  for  example, to learn the  formula  by
which the optimum number  of committee members may be determined.  Somewhere
between  the  number  of 3 (when a  quorum  is  impossible  to collect)  and
approximately 21 (when  the whole organism begins to perish), there lies the
golden number. The interesting  theory has been propounded  that this number
must be 8. Why? Because it is the only number which all existing states (See
Table II above) have agreed to avoid. Attractive as  this theory may seem at
first sight,  it is  open  to one  serious  objection. Eight was the  number
preferred by King  Charles I  for  his  Committee of  State.  And look  what
happened to him! 44








     A PROBLEM  constantly  before  the  modern  administration, whether  in
government  or business,  is  that  of  personnel selection.  The inexorable
working of Parkinson's Law ensures that  appointments  have constantly to be
made and the question is  always how to choose the right candidate from  all
who present themselves. In ascertaining the principles upon which the choice
should be made, we may properly consider, under separate heads, the  methods
used in the past and the methods used at the present day.
     Past methods,  not entirely disused, fall into two main categories, the
British and the Chinese. Both deserve careful consideration, if only for the
reason  that  they  were  obviously more  successful  than  any  method  now
considered  fashionable. The  British  method (old pattern) depended upon an
interview  in which the candidate had to establish his identity. He would be
confronted by  elderly  gentlemen seated  round  a mahogany table who  would
presently ask him his name. Let us suppose that the candidate replied, "John
Seymour." One  of the gentlemen would then say, "Any relation of the Duke of
Somerset?" To this the candidate would say, quite possibly, "No,  sir." Then
another 45 gentleman would  say, "Perhaps you are related, in that  case, to
the Bishop  of Watminster?" If he said "No, sir" again, a third would ask in
despair, "To whom  then are  you related?" In the event of  the  candidate's
saying, "Well, my  father is a fishmonger in Cheapside,"  the  interview was
virtually over. The members of the Board would exchange significant glances,
one  would press  a bell and  another tell the footman,  "Throw  this person
out." One name  could  be  crossed off the list  without further discussion.
Supposing the next candidate was Henry Molyneux and a nephew of  the Earl of
Sefton,  his  chances remained  fair  up to the  moment  when George  Howard
arrived  and  proved  to  be  a  grandson of the Duke of Norfolk. The  Board
encountered no serious difficulty until they had to  compare the  claims  of
the  third  son  of  a baronet  with  the second but illegitimate  son of  a
viscount. Even then  they  could  refer to a  Book of  Precedence. So  their
choice was made and often with the best results.



     The  Admiralty  version  of  this  British  method  (old  pattern)  was
different only  in  its more restricted scope. The  Board  of Admirals  were
unimpressed by titled relatives as such. What they sought to establish was a
service connection. The ideal candidate  would reply to the second question,
"Yes, Admiral Parker is my uncle. My father is Captain Foley, my grandfather
Commodore Foley. My mother's father was Admiral Hardy. Commander Hardy is my
uncle. My  eldest  brother  is a  Lieutenant in the  Royal Marines, my  next
brother is a cadet at Dartmouth and my younger brother wears a sailor suit."
"Ah!" the senior Admiral would say. "And what made you think of  joining the
Navy?"  The  answer  to this question, however, would 46 47 scarcely matter,
the clerk present having already noted the  candidate as acceptable. Given a
choice between two candidates, both equally acceptable by birth, a member of
the Board would ask suddenly, "What was the number of the taxi you came in?"
The candidate who  said "I came by bus"  was then thrown out.  The candidate
who  said, truthfully,  "I don't know," was  rejected, and the candidate who
said "Number  2351"  (lying)  was promptly  admitted to the service as a boy
with initiative. This method often produced excellent results.
     The  British  method (new pattern)  was evolved  in the late nineteenth
century as something more suitable for a  democratic country. The  Selection
Committee would ask briskly, "What school were  you at?"  and would  be told
Harrow, Haileybury, or, Rugby,  as the  case  might  be. "What games do  you
play?"  would be  the next and  invariable  question. A  promising candidate
would reply, "I have played tennis for England, cricket for Yorkshire, rugby
for the Harlequins, and fives for Winchester." The next question  would then
be "Do you play polo?"-- just to prevent the candidate's thinking too highly
of himself.  Even  without playing polo,  however, he  was  evidently  worth
serious consideration. Little time, by contrast, was  wasted  on the man who
admitted to having been educated at Wiggleworth. "Where?" the chairman would
ask in  astonishment, and "Where's  that?" after the name had been repeated.
"Oh, in Lancashire!" he would say  at last. Just  for a matter of form, some
member might ask, "What games do you play?" But the  reply "Table tennis for
Wigan, cycling  for Blackpool,  and  snooker  for Wiggleworth" would finally
delete his name from the list. There might even 48 be some  muttered comment
upon people who  deliberately wasted the committee's time. Here again was  a
method which produced good results.
     The Chinese method (old  pattern) was at one time so extensively copied
by other nations that few people  realize  its Chinese origin.  This  is the
method  of Competitive Written Examination. In China under the Ming  Dynasty
the more promising students used to sit for the provincial examination, held
every third year. It  lasted three sessions of three  days each. During  the
first session the candidate wrote three  essays and composed a poem of eight
couplets.  During the  second session  he wrote five essays  on a  classical
theme. During the third,  he wrote five essays on the art of government. The
successful candidates  (perhaps two  per cent)  then  sat  for  their  final
examination  at  the  imperial  capital. It  lasted  only one  session,  the
candidate  writing one essay  on  a current  political problem. Of those who
were successful  the  majority were  admitted to the civil service, the  man
with the highest  marks  being destined for the  highest office.  The system
worked fairly well.
     The Chinese system was studied by Europeans between 1815 and  1830  and
adopted by the English East India Company in 1832. The effectiveness of this
method was investigated by  a committee in 1854, with Macaulay  as chairman.
The  result was  that the  system of competitive examination  was introduced
into  the British Civil Service in 1855. An essential feature of the Chinese
examinations had been their literary character.  The test was in a knowledge
of the classics, in an ability to write elegantly (both prose and verse) and
in  the  stamina necessary  to complete the course. All these features  were
faithfully incorporated in 49 the Trevelyan-Northcote Report, and thereafter
in the system  it  did so much  to  create. It was  assumed  that  classical
learning and literary ability would fit any candidate for any administrative
post. It was assumed  (no doubt rightly)  that a  scientific education would
fit a  candidate  for  nothing--  except,  possibly, science.  It was known,
finally,  that it  is  virtually impossible to find an order of  merit among
people  who  have  been  examined   in  different  subjects.   Since  it  is
impracticable to decide whether one man is  better in  geology  than another
man in  physics, it is at least  convenient to be able to rule them both out
as useless. When all candidates alike have to write Greek or Latin verse, it
is relatively  easy to decide which verse  is the best. Men thus selected on
their classical performance were then sent forth to govern India. Those with
lower marks were  retained to govern  England. Those  with still lower marks
were rejected altogether or sent to the colonies. While it  would be totally
wrong  to describe this system as a failure, no one could  claim for it  the
success  that  had  attended the  systems  hitherto  in  use. There  was  no
guarantee, to begin with, that the man with the highest marks might not turn
out to be  off his head; as was sometimes found to be the  case. Then  again
the writing of Greek  verse might prove  to be the sole accomplishment  that
some candidates had or  would ever have. On occasion, a successful applicant
may  even  have  been  impersonated  at the  examination  by  someone  else,
subsequently proving  unable to  write Greek verse when  the occasion arose.
Selection by  competitive  examination  was  never  therefore  more  than  a
moderate success.
     Whatever  the faults, however, of the competitive written  examination,
it  certainly  produced  better  results  than any  50 method that  has been
attempted  since. Modern methods  center upon the intelligence test and  the
psychological  interview. The defect in the intelligence  test is that  high
marks  are  gained  by  those  who  subsequently  prove  to  be  practically
illiterate. So much time has  been spent in studying the art of being tested
that the candidate has  rarely had time for anything else. The psychological
interview  has  developed today into what is known as ordeal by house party.
The candidates spend a pleasant weekend under expert observation.  As one of
them  trips  over the doormat and  says "Bother!"  examiners lurking in  the
background  whip  out  their  notebooks   and   jot  down,   "Poor  physical
coordination" and "Lacks self-control."  There is no need to  describe  this
method  in  detail,  but its  results  are all about  us and  are  obviously
deplorable.  The persons who satisfy this type  of examiner are usually of a
cautious  and suspicious temperament,  pedantic and smug, saying little  and
doing  nothing. It  is quite common,  when  appointments  are made  by  this
method, for one  man to be chosen from  five hundred applicants, only to  be
sacked  a few weeks  later  as  useless  even beyond  the standards  of  his
department. Of the various methods of selection so far tried, the latest  is
unquestionably the worst.
     What method should be used in the future? A clue to a possible  line of
investigation is to be found in one little-publicized aspect of contemporary
selective technique.  So  rarely  does the  occasion arise for appointing  a
Chinese translator to the Foreign Office or State Department that the method
used is little known. The post is advertised and the applications go, let us
suppose,  to  a  committee  of  five. Three  are civil servants and two  are
Chinese  scholars 51 of  great eminence.  Heaped  on the  table before  this
committee are  483 forms of application, with testimonials attached. All the
applicants are Chinese and all  without exception  have  a first degree from
Peking  or Amoy and a Doctorate of Philosophy from Cornell or Johns Hopkins.
The  majority of the candidates have at one time held ministerial  office in
Formosa. Some have attached their photographs.  Others have (perhaps wisely)
refrained from  doing so. The chairman turns  to the  leading Chinese expert
and says, "Perhaps Dr. Wu can tell  us  which  of these candidates should be
put on the short list."  Dr. Wu smiles enigmatically and points to the heap.
"None of them any good," he  says briefly. "But how-- I mean, why not?" asks
the chairman, surprised. "Because no good scholar would ever apply. He would
fear to lose face if he  were not chosen." "So  what do we do now?" asks the
chairman.  "I think," says Dr. Wu, "we might  persuade Dr.  Lim to take this
post. What do you  think. Dr. Lee?" "Yes, I think he might,"  says Lee, "but
we couldn't approach him ourselves of  course. We could ask Dr. Tan  whether
he thinks Dr.  Lim  would be  interested." "I don't know Dr.  Tan," says Wu,
"but  I  know  his friend Dr. Wong."  By then the chairman is too muddled to
know who  is  to be approached by whom. But  the great thing is that all the
applications  are  thrown  into  the  waste-paper basket, only one candidate
being considered, and he a man who did not apply.
     We do not advise  the universal adoption of  the  modern Chinese method
but we draw from it the useful conclusion that the  failure of other methods
is mainly  due to there  being too  many candidates. There  are, admittedly,
some initial steps by which the total may be reduced. The 52 formula "Reject
everyone over 50 or under 20 plus everyone called Murphy" is now universally
used, and its application will somewhat reduce the list. The names remaining
will still, however,  be too  numerous.  To  choose  between  three  hundred
people,  all well qualified and highly recommended, is not  really possible.
We are driven therefore  to conclude  that the mistake lies in  the original
advertisement.  It has attracted too many applications. The disadvantage  of
this is so little realized that people devise advertisements  in terms which
will inevitably  attract thousands. A post of responsibility is announced as
vacant, the previous occupant being now in the Senate or the House of Lords.
The  salary  is  large,  the  pension  generous,  the  duties  nominal,  the
privileges  immense, the perquisites valuable, free residence provided  with
official car and unlimited facilities  for travel. Candidates should  apply,
promptly but carefully,  enclosing copies (not originals) of  not more  than
three  recent testimonials. What is the result?  A deluge  of  applications,
many from  lunatics and as many  again from retired  army majors with a gift
(as they always claim) for handling men. There is nothing to  do except burn
the  lot and  start thinking  all over again. It would have saved  time  and
trouble to do some thinking in the first place.
     Only a  little  thought  is needed  to  convince  us  that the  perfect
advertisement would attract only one reply and that from the  right man. Let
us begin with an extreme example.

     Wanted-- Acrobat capable of crossing a slack wire 200 feet above raging
furnace.  Twice  nightly,  three  times  on  Saturday.  53   Salary  offered
&sterling;25 (or $70 U.S.) per week. No pension  and  no compensation in the
event of injury. Apply  in person at  Wildcat Circus between the hours  of 9
A.M. and 10 A.M.


     The wording  of this may not be  perfect but  the aim should  be so  to
balance the inducement in  salary  against  the possible risks involved that
only  a single  applicant  will appear. It is needless to ask for details of
qualifications and experience. No one unskilled on the slack wire would find
the  offer attractive. It  is needless to  insist that  candidates should be
physically fit, sober,  and free from fits of  dizziness. They know that. It
is just  as needless to stipulate  that those nervous  of heights  need  not
apply.  They won't. The  skill  of the advertiser consists in adjusting  the
salary to the danger. An offer of  &sterling;1000  (or  $3000 U.S.) per week
might produce  a dozen applicants. An offer of &sterling;15  (or  $35  U.S.)
might  produce none. Somewhere between those two  figures lies the exact sum
to  specify, the minimum figure to  attract anyone actually capable of doing
the job. If there is more than one applicant,  the  figure has been placed a
trifle too high.
     Let us now take, for comparison, a less extreme example.

Wanted-- An archaeologist with high academic qualifications willing to spend
fifteen  years in  excavating the Inca tombs  at Helsdump on  the  Alligator
River. Knighthood or equivalent honor guaranteed. Pension payable but  never
yet  claimed.  Salary of &sterling;2000  (or $6000 U.S.) per year. Apply  in
triplicate to the  Director of the Grubbenburrow Institute,  Sickdale, Ill.,
U.S.A.


     Here the advantages and drawbacks are neatly balanced. There is no need
to  insist that candidates must be patient, 54  tough, intrepid, and single.
The terms  of  the advertisement  have eliminated  all who  are  not. It  is
unnecessary to require that candidates must be mad on  excavating tombs. Mad
is  just  what they  will  certainly  be.  Having thus  reduced the possible
applicants to a maximum of about three, the terms of the advertisement place
the salary just too low  to attract two of them and the  promised honor just
high enough  to interest the third.  We may  suppose that, in this case, the
offer of a  K.C.M.G. would  have produced two applications, the  offer of an
O.B.E.,  none. The result is a single candidate. He is off his head but that
does not matter. He is the man we want.
     It may be thought that the world offers comparatively few opportunities
to appoint slack-wire acrobats and tomb excavators, and that the problem  is
more  often to  find candidates for less exotic  appointments. This is true,
but the same principles can be applied. Their application demands, however--
as is evident-- a greater  degree of skill.  Let us suppose that the post to
be filled  is that of Prime Minister.  The modern  tendency  is  to trust in
various  methods of  election,  with  results  that  are  almost  invariably
disastrous. Were  we  to  turn,  instead, to the fairy stories we learned in
childhood, we should realize  that  at  the  period  to  which these stories
relate far  more  satisfactory methods were  in use.  When  the  king had to
choose  a man to  marry his  eldest  or  only daughter  and  so inherit  the
kingdom, he normally  planned some obstacle course from which only the right
candidate  would  emerge  with  credit;  and  from  which  indeed  (in  many
instances) only the right candidate would emerge at all. For imposing such a
test the kings of that rather vaguely defined period were well provided with
55 both  personnel  and equipment.  Their establishment  included magicians,
demons, fairies, vampires, werewolves, giants, and dwarfs. Their territories
were supplied with magic  mountains, rivers of fire, hidden  treasures,  and
enchanted forests.  It might  be urged that  modern  governments are in this
respect  less  fortunate.  This,   however,  is  by  no  means  certain.  An
administrator able to command  the services of psychologists, psychiatrists,
alienists, statisticians, and efficiency  experts is not perhaps  in a worse
(or  better)  position  than  one  relying  upon  hideous  crones and  fairy
godmothers.  An  administration  equipped  with  movie  cameras,  television
apparatus,  radio networks, and X-ray machines would not appear  to be in  a
worse (or  better) position than one  employing magic wands, crystal  balls,
wishing wells, and  cloaks of invisibility.  Their means of assessment would
seem,  at  any  rate, to be strictly comparable. All that is required is  to
translate  the technique of  the fairy story  into a  form applicable to the
modern world. In this, as we shall  see,  there is  no essential difficulty.
The first step in the process is to decide on the qualities a Prime Minister
ought to  have. These need not be  the  same in all circumstances,  but they
need to be listed and  agreed upon. Let us suppose that the qualities deemed
essential are (i)  Energy, (2) Courage,  (3) Patriotism, (4) Experience, (5)
Popularity, and (6)  Eloquence.  Now, it will be observed that all these are
general-qualities which all possible applicants would believe  themselves to
possess. The field could readily, of  course, be narrowed by stipulating (4)
Experience of lion-taming, or (6) Eloquence in Mandarin. But that is not the
way  in which we want to narrow  the field.  We do not want to  stipulate  a
quality in a 56 special form; rather, each quality in an exceptional degree.
In  other  words,  the  successful  candidate must be  the  most  energetic,
courageous,  patriotic,  experienced,  popular,  and  eloquent  man  in  the
country. Only one man can answer to  that  description and  his is  the only
application we want. The terms of the appointment must thus be phrased so as
to exclude everyone else. We should therefore word the advertisement in some
such way as follows:

Wanted--  Prime Minister of Ruritania. Hours of work: 4 A.M. to  11.59  P.M.
Candidates  must  be  prepared  to  fight  three  rounds  with  the  current
heavyweight champion (regulation gloves to be worn). Candidates will die for
their  country,  by painless means, on reaching the age  of retirement (65).
They will have to pass an examination in parliamentary procedure and will be
liquidated  should they  fail  to  obtain  95%  marks.  They  will  also  be
liquidated  if they fail  to  gain 75% votes in a popularity poll held under
the Gallup  Rules. They will finally be invited to try  their eloquence on a
Baptist Congress, the object being to induce those present to rock and roll.
Those who fail will be liquidated. All candidates should  present themselves
at  the  Sporting  Club (side  entrance) at  11.15  A.M. on the  morning  of
September 19.  Gloves  will be  provided,  but they  should  bring their own
rubber-soled shoes, singlet, and shorts.


     Observe  that  this advertisement  saves all  trouble about application
forms, testimonials,  photographs,  references,  and  short  lists.  If  the
advertisement has been  correctly worded, there will be only one  applicant,
and he can take  office  immediately-- well, almost immediately. But what if
there  is  no  applicant?  That  is proof  that the  advertisement  57 needs
rewording. We  have evidently asked for  something more than exists. So  the
same advertisement (which is,  after all, quite economical in space) can  be
inserted again with some slight adjustment. The pass mark in the examination
can be reduced to  85 per cent with 65 per cent of the votes required in the
popularity poll, and only two rounds against the heavyweight. Conditions can
be successively relaxed, indeed, until an applicant appears.
     Suppose, however, that two or even three candidates present themselves.
We shall know that  we  have been  insufficiently scientific. It may be that
the pass mark  in the examination has been too abruptly lowered-- it  should
have  been 87 per cent, perhaps, with  66 per cent  in  the popularity poll.
Whatever  the  cause,  the  damage has  been  done.  Two, or possibly three,
candidates are  in  the  waiting room. We have  a choice to make and  cannot
waste all the morning  on  it.  One policy would  be to start the ordeal and
eliminate  the   candidates  who  emerge  with  least   credit.   There  is,
nevertheless,  a quicker way. Let us  assume  that all three candidates have
all the qualities already defined as essential. The only thing we need do is
add one further quality and apply the simplest  test  of all. To do this, we
ask  the nearest young lady (receptionist or  stenographer,  as the case may
be),  "Which would  you  prefer?"  She will  promptly point  out one of  the
candidates  and  so  finish  the  matter.  It  has been objected  that  this
procedure  is  the same thing as tossing a coin or otherwise  letting chance
decide.  There  is,  in  fact,  no  element of  chance.  It  is  merely  the
last-minute insistence  on one  other quality,  one not  so  far taken  into
account: the quality of sex appeal. 58






     EVERY STUDENT of human institutions is familiar with the  standard test
by which the importance of  the  individual may  be assessed. The number  of
doors to be passed, the number of his personal assistants, the number of his
telephone  receivers-- these three figures,  taken  with  the  depth  of his
carpet  in centimeters, have given us a simple  formula that is reliable for
most  parts of the world.  It  is less  widely  known that  the same sort of
measurement is applicable, but in reverse, to the institution itself.
     Take, for example, a publishing  organization. Publishers have a strong
tendency, as we know, to live in a state of chaotic squalor. The visitor who
applies at the obvious entrance is led outside and around the block, down an
alley  and up three flights of stairs. A research establishment is similarly
housed, as a rule, on the ground floor  of what  was once a private house, a
crazy  wooden corridor leading thence to a corrugated iron hut  in  what was
once  the garden. Are we not all familiar,  moreover, with the layout  of an
international airport? As  we emerge  from the aircraft, we see (over to our
right or left)  a  lofty structure  wrapped in  scaffolding.  Then  the  air
hostess leads us into 59 a  hut with an asbestos roof. Nor do we suppose for
a moment that it will ever be otherwise. By the time  the permanent building
is complete the airfield will have been moved to another site.
     The institutions already mentioned-- lively and  productive as they may
be--  flourish in such  shabby and makeshift surroundings that we might turn
with relief  to an institution clothed from the outset with  convenience and
dignity.  The outer  door,  in  bronze  and glass, is  placed centrally in a
symmetrical  facade. Polished shoes glide quietly over shining rubber to the
glittering and  silent  elevator. The overpoweringly  cultured  receptionist
will  murmer with carmine lips into an ice-blue  receiver. She will wave you
into a chromium armchair, consoling you with a dazzling smile for any slight
but  inevitable delay. Looking  up  from a glossy magazine, you will observe
how the wide corridors radiate  toward departments A,  B, and C. From behind
closed doors will  come the subdued noise of an ordered  activity.  A minute
later and you  are ankle deep  in the  director's  carpet, plodding sturdily
toward his distant, tidy desk.  Hypnotized by the chief's  unwavering stare,
cowed by the Matisse  hung upon his wall, you  will feel that you have found
real efficiency at last.
     In point of  fact you will have discovered nothing of  the kind.  It is
now  known  that  a  perfection  of  planned  layout  is  achieved  only  by
institutions  on  the   point  of  collapse.  This   apparently  paradoxical
conclusion is based upon a wealth of archaeological and historical research,
with the  more esoteric details of  which we need not concern  ourselves. In
general  principle, however, the method pursued has been to  select and date
the buildings  which  appear  60 to have been perfectly  designed for  their
purpose. A study and comparison of these has tended to prove that perfection
of planning is a symptom of decay. During a  period of exciting discovery or
progress there is  no time  to  plan the perfect headquarters.  The time for
that comes  later, when all the important work has been done. Perfection, we
know, is finality; and finality is death.
     Thus, to the casual  tourist, awestruck in front of  St. Peter's, Rome,
the  Basilica and the Vatican must  seem  the  ideal setting  for the  Papal
Monarchy  at the very height of  its prestige and  power. Here, he reflects,
must Innocent III have thundered  his anathema. Here  must Gregory VII  have
laid down the law. But a glance at  the guidebook will convince the traveler
that  the  really  powerful Popes reigned  long  before the present dome was
raised, and  reigned  not  infrequently somewhere else.  More than that, the
later Popes lost half their  authority while the work was still in progress.
Julius II, whose decision it was to build, and Leo X, who approved Raphael's
design,  were dead  long before the  buildings assumed  their present shape.
Bramante's  palace was  still  building  until  1565, the  great  church not
consecrated  until 1626, nor the piazza colonnades  finished until 1667. The
great days  of  the Papacy were  over before the  perfect  setting was  even
planned. They were almost forgotten by the date of its completion.
     That this sequence of events  is  in no way  exceptional can be  proved
with ease. Just such a sequence can be found in the history of the League of
Nations. Great hopes centered on the League from its inception in 1920 until
about 1930. By 1933, at the latest, the experiment  was seen to have failed.
Its physical embodiment, however, the Palace 61 62  of  the Nations, was not
opened until 1937. It was  a structure no doubt justly admired. Deep thought
had gone into  the design  of  secretariat and  council chambers,  committee
rooms  and  cafeteria.  Everything was there  which ingenuity could devise--
except, indeed, the League  itself. By the year when its Palace was formally
opened the League had practically ceased to exist.



     It might be  urged  that the Palace  of Versailles  is an  instance  of
something  quite  opposite;  the  architectural  embodiment of  Louis  XIV's
monarchy at its height. But here again  the facts  refuse to fit the theory.
For granted that  Versailles may typify the triumphant spirit of the age, it
was  mostly completed  very late in the  reign, and some of it indeed during
the reign  that  followed.  The building  of  Versailles  mainly  took place
between 1669 and 1685. The king did not move there until 1682, and even then
the work  was  still in progress. The famous royal bedroom was not  occupied
until 1701, nor the chapel finished until nine years later.  Considered as a
seat of government,  as  apart from a  royal residence, Versailles dates  in
part from  as late as 1756. As  against that, Louis XIV's real triumphs were
mostly before 1679, the apex  of his career reached  in  1682 itself and his
power declining  from  about  1685.  According  to one historian,  Louis, in
coming to Versailles "was  already sealing the doom of  his line  and race."
Another says of Versailles  that "The whole thing... was completed just when
the  decline of  Louis's power had  begun." A third  tacitly  supports  this
theory by describing the  period  1685-1713 as  "The Years  of  Decline." In
other  words, the visitor who thinks Versailles the place from which Turenne
rode forth to victory is essentially mistaken. It 63 would  be  historically
more correct to  picture  the embarrassment, in that setting,  of those  who
came  with the news  of  defeat at Blenheim. In  a  palace resplendent  with
emblems of victory they can hardly have known which way to look.
     Mention of Blenheim must naturally call to mind the palace of that name
built for the victorious Duke of Marlborough. Here again we have  a building
ideally planned, this time  as  the place of retirement for a national hero.
Its heroic proportions are more dramatic  perhaps than  convenient,  but the
general  effect is just what the architects intended.  No  scene could  more
fittingly enshrine a legend. No setting could have been more appropriate for
the meeting of  old comrades  on the anniversary of  a battle. Our pleasure,
however, in picturing the scene is spoiled by our realization that it cannot
have taken place. The Duke never lived there and never even saw it finished.
His actual  residence was at Holywell, near  St. Alban's, and (when in town)
at  Marlborough House. He died at  Windsor Lodge and his  old comrades, when
they held a reunion, are  known to have dined  in a tent. Blenheim took long
in building,  not  because  of the  elaboration  of  the design--  which was
admittedly quite elaborate enough-- but because the Duke was in disgrace and
even, for two  years,  in exile during the period which might otherwise have
witnessed its completion.
     What of  the monarchy which  the Duke of  Marlborough served?  Just  as
tourists now wander, guidebook in hand, through the Orangerie or the Galerie
des  Glaces,  so  the future  archaeologist may  peer around  what  once was
London.  And he may well incline to see in the ruins of Buckingham  Palace a
true expression of British monarchy. He  64 will trace the great avenue from
Admiralty Arch to the palace gate. He will reconstruct the forecourt and the
central balcony, thinking all the time how  suitable it must have been for a
powerful ruler whose sway extended to the remote parts of the  world. Even a
present-day American might be tempted to  shake his  head over the arrogance
of a George III,  enthroned in  such impressive state as  this. But again we
find  that  the  really  powerful monarchs  all  lived  somewhere  else,  in
buildings  long since  vanished--  at Greenwich  or Nonesuch, Kenilworth  or
Whitehall.  The  builder  of  Buckingham  Palace was George IV, whose  court
architect, John Nash, was responsible for what was described at the  time as
its "general feebleness and triviality of taste." But George IV himself, who
lived at Carlton  House or Brighton, never  saw the finished  work; nor  did
William IV, who ordered its completion. It was Queen Victoria who first took
up residence there in 1837, being married from  the new  palace in 1840. But
her first  enthusiasm  for Buckingham Palace was relatively short-lived. Her
husband infinitely  preferred Windsor and her own later preference  was  for
Balmoral or Osborne.  The splendors of Buckingham Palace are therefore to be
associated,   if   we  are  to  be  accurate,  with  a  later  and  strictly
constitutional monarchy. It  dates  from a  period when power was vested  in
Parliament.
     It  is  natural, therefore, to  ask at this point whether the Palace of
Westminster, where  the House of Commons  meets, is itself a true expression
of parliamentary rule. It represents beyond question a magnificent  piece of
planning, aptly designed for debate and yet provided  with  ample space  for
everything  else--  for  committee   meetings,  for  65   quiet  study,  for
refreshment, and  (on its terrace) for  tea. It  has everything a legislator
could possibly desire, all incorporated in a building of immense dignity and
comfort. It should date-- but this we now hardly dare assume-- from a period
when parliamentary rule was at its  height. But once  again the dates refuse
to  fit  into this pattern.  The  original House,  where Pitt  and Fox  were
matched in  oratory,  was accidentally destroyed by fire  in  1834. It would
appear to have been as famed for its inconvenience as for its lofty standard
of debate. The present structure was begun in 1840, partly occupied in 1852,
but  incomplete  when its architect  died  in  1860. It finally  assumed its
present appearance in about 1868.  Now, by what we can no  longer regard  as
coincidence, the decline of Parliament can be traced, without much  dispute,
to the Reform Act of 1867. It was in the  following year that all initiative
in  legislation passed  from Parliament  to be vested  in the  Cabinet.  The
prestige  attached  to  the  letters "M.P."  began  sharply to  decline  and
thenceforward the most  that could be  said is that "a role, though a humble
one, was left for private members." The great days were over.
     The same  could  not be said of the  various Ministries, which  were to
gain importance in proportion to Parliament's decline. Investigation may yet
serve to reveal  that the  India  Office reached its peak of efficiency when
accommodated  in the Westminster  Palace  Hotel. What  is  more significant,
however,  is  the recent development of the Colonial  Office. For  while the
British Empire  was mostly acquired at a period when the Colonial Office (in
so far as there was one) occupied  haphazard premises in  Downing  Street, a
new  phase of  colonial  policy  began when  the  department  moved 66  into
buildings  actually designed  for  the  purpose.  This was in  1875 and  the
structure  was well designed  as a  background for the disasters of the Boer
War. But the Colonial Office gained a new lease of life during World War II.
With its move  to  temporary and highly inconvenient premises in Great Smith
Street-- premises leased  from  the Church of England  and  intended  for an
entirely different purpose--  British colonial policy entered that phase  of
enlightened activity  which will end no doubt with the completion of the new
building  planned  on  the  site  of the  old  Westminster Hospital.  It  is
reassuring to know that work on this site has not even begun.
     But no other British example can now match in significance the story of
New  Delhi.  Nowhere else  have British  architects been given  the task  of
planning  so  great a capital city as the  seat of government  for so vast a
population. The intention to found  New  Delhi was announced at the Imperial
Durbar of 1911, King George  V being at that  time  the Mogul's successor on
what had been the Peacock  Throne. Sir Edwin Lutyens then proceeded  to draw
up plans  for a British Versailles, splendid in conception, comprehensive in
detail, masterly in design, and overpowering in scale. But the stages of its
progress  toward completion correspond  with  so  many  steps  in  political
collapse.  The Government of India Act of  1909  had been the prelude to all
that  followed-- the  attempt on the Viceroy's life in 1912, the Declaration
of 1917, the Montagu-Chelmsford Report of  1918  and its  implementation  in
1920. Lord Irwin  actually moved  into  his new palace in 1929,  the year in
which the Indian Congress demanded independence, the year in which the Round
Table Conference opened, the 67 year before the Civil  Disobedience campaign
began. It would  be possible, though tedious, to trace the whole story  down
to  the day when the British finally withdrew, showing how each phase of the
retreat was  exactly paralleled  with the  completion of another triumph  in
civic  design.  What was  finally achieved was no more  and no  less  than a
mausoleum.
     The decline  of British  imperialism  actually began with  the  general
election  of  1906  and  the   victory  on  that  occasion  of  liberal  and
semi-socialist ideas.  It need surprise  no  one, therefore, to observe that
1906  is  the  date of completion  carved in imperishable granite  over  the
British War Office doors. The campaign of Waterloo might  have been directed
from poky offices around the Horse  Guards Parade. It was,  by contrast,  in
surroundings  of  dignity that were approved  the  plans for  attacking  the
Dardanelles.
     The elaborate layout  of the Pentagon at Arlington, Virginia,  provides
another significant lesson  for planners. It  was not  completed  until  the
later stages of World War  II and, of course, the architecture  of the great
victory  was not constructed here, but in  the crowded and untidy  Munitions
Building on Constitution Avenue.
     Even today, as the least observant visitor to  Washington  can see, the
most monumental  edifices  are found to house such derelict organizations as
the Departments of Commerce and Labor, while the more active agencies occupy
half-completed  quarters.  Indeed,  much  of  the  more  urgent business  of
government  goes forward in "temporary" structures erected during World  War
I, and  shrewdly preserved for  their  stimulating effect on administration.
Hard  by  the   Capitol,  the  visitor  will  also   observe   the  imposing
marble-and-glass 68  headquarters  of the Teamsters'  Union, completed not a
moment  too  soon  before the  heavy  hand  of  Congressional  investigation
descended on its occupants.
     It is by  no means certain  that an influential reader of this  chapter
could prolong the life of a  dying institution merely by depriving it of its
streamlined headquarters. What  he can do, however, with more confidence, is
to  prevent  any organization strangling itself at birth. Examples abound of
new institutions coming into  existence with a full establishment  of deputy
directors,  consultants and  executives;  all  these coming  together  in  a
building specially  designed  for their purpose.  And experience proves that
such an institution will die. It  is choked by its own perfection. It cannot
take root for  lack  of soil.  It  cannot  grow naturally  for it is already
grown. Fruitless by its very nature,  it cannot even  flower. When we see an
example  of  such  planning--  when we  are  confronted  for example  by the
building designed for the United Nations-- the experts among us shake  their
heads sadly, draw a sheet over the corpse,  and tiptoe quietly into the open
air. 69






     ESSENTIAL TO the technique of modern life  is the Cocktail Party.  Upon
this institution hinges the  international, the learned,  and the industrial
congress. Without  at least one cocktail party these gatherings are known to
be  impossible. So far there  has been too  little scientific study of their
function  and  possible  use.  The time has come to give  this subject  some
careful thought. In planning a cocktail  party what, exactly,  do we hope to
achieve?
     This question can be  answered in  various ways,  and it  soon  becomes
evident that the same party can serve a variety of purposes. Let us take one
possible object  at random and see how it could  be attained more completely
and  quickly by the application of scientific method. Take, for example, the
problem of discovering the relative importance of  the people  there. We may
assume that their official status  and seniority  is already known. But what
of  their actual importance in  relation to the  work being done?  It  often
happens  that  the key  men  and  women are not  those  of  highest official
standing. That  these others are influential  will be apparent by the end of
the  conference.  How  much more useful  if  we could  have  assessed  their
importance 70 at  the beginning!  It is in this  assessment  that a cocktail
party, held on the second day of the congress, may give invaluable aid.
     For the purposes of the investigation it will be assumed that the space
in which the party is to be held  is all on one level and that there is only
one formal entrance.  It will be assumed, further, that the whole affair  is
to last two hours according to the invitation cards but two hours and twenty
minutes  in  actual  fact.  It will  be assumed,  finally, that  the  drinks
circulate freely throughout the area with which  we have to  deal; for a bar
in  visible operation  would  alter  the nature  of the problem. Given these
assumptions, how are  we to assess the real  as  opposed to the  theoretical
importance of the guests present?
     The first known fact upon which we can base our theory is the direction
of the  human  current.  We  know  that  the  guests on arrival  will  drift
automatically toward the left side of the reception floor. This leftward set
of  the tide has an interesting and partly biological explanation. The heart
is (or to be exact, appears to be) on the left side of the body. In the more
primitive form of warfare  some form  of shield is therefore used to protect
the  left  side, leaving the offensive weapon to be  held in the right hand.
The normal offensive weapon was the sword, worn in a scabbard  or sheath. If
the sword was to be wielded in the right hand, the scabbard would have to be
worn  on  the  left  side.  With  a  scabbard  worn  on  the left, it became
physically impossible  to mount a horse on the off  side unless intending to
face the tail-- which  was not the normal practice. But if you mount on  the
near side, you will want to have your horse on the left of the road, so that
you are clear of the 71 traffic while mounting. It therefore becomes natural
and  proper to keep to  the  left, the contrary practice (as adopted in some
backward  countries)  being  totally opposed  to all  the deepest historical
instincts. Free of arbitrary  traffic rules the normal human being swings to
the left.
     The second known fact is that people prefer the side of the room to the
middle. This is obvious from the way a restaurant fills up. The tables along
the left wall  are  occupied first, then those  at the far end,  then  those
along the right wall, and finally (and with reluctance) those in the middle.
Such  is  the human revulsion  to  the central  space that managements often
despair of filling it and so create what is termed a dance floor. It will be
realized that  this  behavior pattern  could  be  upset  by some  extraneous
factor, like a  view  of the waterfall from  the end windows.  If we exclude
cathedrals and glaciers, the restaurant will fill up on the lines indicated,
from  left to  right. Reluctance to occupy  the  central space  derives from
prehistoric instincts.  The  caveman  who entered  someone  else's cave  was
doubtful of his reception and wanted to be able to have his back to the wall
and yet with some  room to maneuver. In the  center of the cave he felt  too
vulnerable. He  therefore sidled  round the walls  of the cave, grunting and
fingering his club. Modern man  is seen to do much the same thing, muttering
to  himself and  fingering his  club tie.  The basic  trend of movement at a
cocktail party is the  same as  in a restaurant.  The tendency is toward the
sides of the space, but not actually reaching the wall.
     If  we  combine  these  two known  facts,  the leftward  drift and  the
tendency  to avoid  the  center, we have the biological explanation  of  the
phenomenon we have  all observed 72 in practice: that is the clockwise  flow
of the human movement. There may  be local eddies and  swirls--  women  will
swerve to avoid people they detest, or rush crying "Darling!" toward  people
they  detest even  more-- but  the general set of  the tide runs  inexorably
round the room. People  who matter, people who are literally "in the  swim,"
keep to the channel where the tide runs strongly. They move with the general
movement and at very much the average speed. Those who appear to be glued to
the  walls, usually  deep in conversation with people they meet every  week,
are  nobodies. Those who  jam themselves in the corners of the  room are the
timid and feeble.  Those  who  drift  into the center are  the eccentric and
merely silly.
     What we have next to study is the  time at  which people arrive. Now we
can  safely assume that  the people who matter will arrive  at the time they
consider favorable. They will not  be among those who have overestimated the
length of their journey and so arrive ten minutes before the party is due to
begin. They will not  be among those whose watches have stopped and who rush
in, panting, when the party  is  nearly  over. No,  the  people we  want  to
identify will  choose their moment. What moment will it be? It will  clearly
be a time  fixed by  two major considerations. They will not want to make an
entrance before  there are sufficient people there to observe their arrival.
But neither will they want  to arrive after other important people have gone
on (as they  always do) to another party. Their arrival will therefore be at
least half an hour after the party begins and at least an hour  before it is
due to end. That gives us a bracket, suggesting the formula that the optimum
arrival time will be exactly three-quarters  of an hour after the time given
on 73 the invitation card: 7.15, for  example, if  the party  is supposed to
start  at  6.30.  The  temptation  at this point  is  to conclude  that  the
discovery of the optimum arrival time is the  solution to the whole problem.
Some students  might  say, "Never mind what happens afterwards. Observe  the
door  with a  stop watch  and  you  have the  answer." The more  experienced
investigator will treat that suggestion with gentle derision. For  who is to
know that the person arriving at 7.15 precisely was aiming  to do just that?
Some may  arrive  at that  time because  they meant to be there at 6.30  but
could not  find the place. Others may arrive at that  hour thinking that the
time is  later  than it is. A  few might turn up  then  without  even  being
invited-- guests expected  somewhere else  and on another  day. So, although
safely concluding that  the people who matter should arrive between 7.10 and
7.20, we would be entirely  wrong  to regard  as important all who appear at
about that time.
     It is at this  stage  in the  research project that we need to test and
complete  our theory  by experimental  means. Fully to understand the social
current, we should  resort to the  technique used in a hydraulic laboratory.
In such an establishment the scientist who wants to ascertain how water will
flow round a bridge pier of a certain shape will  add cochineal to the water
which he sets  flowing over a  sheet of  glass. On the  glass  he places his
model  pier. Then from above he photographs  the  pattern made  by the color
streaks in the water. What we should like to do would  be to mark the people
of  known  importance at  a  cocktail party-- stain them,  as it  were, with
cochineal-- and photograph their progress from a gallery. It may be supposed
that there are difficulties about pursuing an investigation  on these lines.
74 Luckily, however, information came to hand about a certain British Colony
where the "staining" of some specimens had already been done.
     What had happened  was that  a former Governor, perhaps a  century ago,
tried  to persuade  the respectable male  population to wear  black  evening
dress instead of white. His persuasion  and example failed completely so far
as the merchants, bankers  and lawyers were concerned but he was necessarily
obeyed by the  civil servants, who had no option in the  matter. The  result
was  that  a  tradition  grew  up and  has been observed  to this day.  High
government  officers wear black and  everyone else wears white.  Now, as the
officials are  still important  in this particular society, it  was easy for
investigators to follow  their movement  from a gallery.  It  was  possible,
moreover,  to  photograph  their  movement  pattern  on different occasions,
confirming  the  theories so  far described  and  leading  us  to  the final
discovery which we are  now in a position to disclose. Careful  observations
proved, beyond a shadow of  doubt, that the black coats arrived at some time
between 7.10 and  7.20; that they circled left and  so  proceeded around the
floor; that they avoided the  corners and the  walls; and that  they shunned
the middle. So far  their behavior closely  conformed to  our theory. But we
now  noted a further and unexpected phenomenon. Having  reached a point near
the far  right corner of the  room-- which they did in half  an hour--  they
lingered in the same area for ten minutes or more. They then tended to leave
rather abruptly. It was only after long and careful study of the films taken
that we realized what this behavior meant. The pause, we finally  concluded,
was  to  allow the  other important  people  to 75  catch  up, those who had
arrived at 7.10  waiting for  those who  had  arrived at  7.20.  The  actual
foregathering of  the important people did not take long.  They  each merely
wanted  to be seen by the others, as proof that  they were there. This done,
the withdrawal began and was, in every instance, complete by 8.15.
     What we learned by  observation in this  one society is now believed to
be applicable  to any other;  and the formula is easy to  apply. To find the
people  who  really  matter,  divide  the whole floor  area (mentally)  into
squares. Letter these from  left to right, as you enter,  as  A, B, C, D, E,
and F. Number the squares from the entrance  to  the far  end as 1 to 8. The
hour at which the party begins should be termed  H. The moment when the last
guest  leaves  will be approximately two hours and twenty minutes  after the
first people arrive. We shall  call  this H  + 140.  To  find the people who
really matter is now perfectly simple. They are the people grouped in square
E/7 between H + 75  and H + 90. The most important person of all  will be in
the very center of the group.
     Students will  realize that the validity of this rule  must depend upon
its not being generally known. The contents of this chapter should therefore
be treated as confidential and kept strictly under lock and key. Students of
social science must keep this information to  themselves  and members of the
general public are not on any account to read it. 76



     77






     WE  FIND everywhere a type of organization (administrative, commercial,
or academic) in which the higher officials are plodding and dull, those less
senior are active  only in  intrigue against each other, and  the junior men
are frustrated  or  frivolous. Little is being  attempted. Nothing is  being
achieved. And in contemplating this sorry picture, we conclude that those in
control have done their best, struggled against adversity,  and have finally
admitted defeat. It now appears  from the  results of recent  investigation,
that no such  failure need be assumed. In a  high percentage of the moribund
institutions so far examined the final  state of coma is something gained of
set  purpose and after prolonged effort. It is the result, admittedly,  of a
disease, but of a disease that is largely self-induced. From the first signs
of the  condition, the  progress of  the  disease  has been  encouraged, the
causes aggravated,  and the symptoms welcomed. It is the  disease of induced
inferiority, called  Injelititis. It  is a commoner  ailment  than  is often
supposed, and the diagnosis is far easier than the cure.
     Our study of  this organizational paralysis begins,  logically,  with a
description of  the  course of the disease from  the 78 first  signs  to the
final coma. The second stage of our inquiry concerns symptoms and diagnosis.
The third  stage  should properly include some reference  to treatment,  but
little  is  known  about  this. Nor is much  likely to be discovered in  the
immediate future,  for the tradition of British medical research is entirely
opposed to any  emphasis  on this  part  of  the  subject.  British  medical
specialists are usually quite content to trace the symptoms  and  define the
cause.  It is the French, by contrast, who begin by describing the treatment
and discuss the diagnosis later, if at all. We feel bound to adhere  in this
to  the  British  method,  which  may  not  help  the patient but  which  is
unquestionably  more scientific.  To  travel  hopefully  is  better than  to
arrive.
     The  first  sign  of  danger is  represented  by the appearance in  the
organization's hierarchy of an  individual who combines  in  himself a  high
concentration of incompetence and jealousy. Neither quality  is  significant
in  itself and most people have a certain proportion of each. But when these
two qualities reach a certain concentration--  represented at present by the
formula  I3J5--  there is a chemical reaction. The two
elements fuse, producing a new substance  that we have termed "injelitance."
The  presence of  this substance can be safely  inferred from the actions of
any  individual  who, having failed  to make anything of his own department,
tries constantly to interfere with other departments and gain control of the
central administration.  The specialist who observes this particular mixture
of failure and ambition will  at once shake his head and murmur, "Primary or
idiopathic  injelitance."  The   symptoms,  as  we   shall  see,  are  quite
unmistakable. 79



     The  next or secondary stage in the progress of the  disease is reached
when the infected  individual  gains  complete  or partial  control  of  the
central organization. In many  instances  this stage is reached  without any
period of  primary infection, the  individual  having actually  entered  the
organization at that level. The injelitant individual is easily recognizable
at  this  stage from  the persistence with  which  he struggles to eject all
those abler  than himself, as also from his resistance to the appointment or
promotion of 80 anyone who might prove abler in course of time. He  dare not
say, "Mr. Asterisk is too able," so he says, "Asterisk? Clever perhaps-- but
is he sound? I incline to prefer Mr. Cypher." He dare not say, "Mr. Asterisk
makes me  feel  small," so he says, "Mr. Cypher  appears to  me  to have the
better judgment."  Judgment is an interesting  word that  signifies in  this
context the opposite of intelligence; it means, in fact, doing what was done
last time. So Mr. Cypher  is promoted  and Mr.  Asterisk goes elsewhere. The
central  administration gradually  fills up with  people  stupider  than the
chairman,  director,  or  manager.  If  the  head  of  the  organization  is
second-rate, he will see to  it that his immediate staff are all third-rate;
and  they will, in turn,  see to it that their subordinates are fourth-rate.
There will soon be an actual competition  in stupidity, people pretending to
be even more brainless than they are.
     The next or tertiary stage in the onset of this disease is reached when
there is no spark of intelligence left in the whole organization from top to
bottom. This is the state of  coma we described in our first paragraph. When
that stage has  been reached the institution is, for all practical purposes,
dead. It may remain in a coma for twenty years. It may quietly disintegrate.
It may even, finally, recover. Cases of recovery are rare. It may be thought
odd that recovery without treatment should be possible. The process is quite
natural,  nevertheless, and  closely resembles the process  by which various
living organisms develop a resistance to poisons that are at first encounter
fatal.  It  is  as  if  the whole  institution had  been  sprayed with a DDT
solution guaranteed to eliminate all ability found in its way.  For a period
of years this practice achieves the desired  result. 81 Eventually, however,
individuals develop  an immunity. They conceal their ability under a mask of
imbecile good humor. The result is that the operatives  assigned to the task
of ability-elimination fail (through  stupidity)  to recognize  ability when
they see it. An individual of merit penetrates the outer defenses and begins
to make  his  way toward the  top.  He  wanders on, babbling about  golf and
giggling feebly,  losing  documents and  forgetting names,  and looking just
like  everyone else. Only  when he  has reached high  rank does  he suddenly
throw off the mask and appear like the demon king among a crowd of pantomime
fairies.  With  shrill screams of  dismay the  high executives  find ability
right there  in the midst  of them. It is  too late by  then  to do anything
about  it. The  damage has  been done,  the disease is in retreat,  and full
recovery is possible over the next ten years. But these instances of natural
cure are extremely  rare. In  the more usual  course  of events, the disease
passes  through  the  recognized  stages and  becomes,  as  it  would  seem,
incurable.
     We  have seen what the disease  is.  It  now  remains to  show by  what
symptoms its presence can be detected. It is one thing to detail the  spread
of  the  infection in an  imaginary  case, classified  from the start. It is
quite a different thing to enter a factory, barracks, office, or college and
recognize the symptoms at  a glance. We all  know how an estate  agent  will
wander  round  a  vacant house when acting  for the  purchaser. It is only a
question of  time before he throws open a  cupboard or kicks a baseboard and
exclaims, "Dry rot!"  (acting for  the vendor, he would lose  the key of the
cupboard while drawing attention to the view from the window). In  the  same
way a political scientist can 82 recognize the symptoms  of Injelititis even
in its primary stage. He will pause, sniff, and nod wisely, and it should be
obvious at once that  he knows. But how does he  know? How  can he tell that
injelitance  has set  in?  If  the  original source of  the  infection  were
present, the diagnosis would be easier, but it is still  quite possible when
the germ of the disease is on holiday. His influence can be  detected in the
atmosphere. It can  be detected,  above all, in certain remarks that will be
made by others, as thus: "It would be a mistake  for us to attempt too much.
We cannot compete with Toprank. Here in Lowgrade  we do useful work, meeting
the needs of the country. Let us be content with that." Or again, "We do not
pretend to be  in the  first  flight. It is absurd the way  these people  at
Much-Striving talk  of  their  work, just  as if  they were in  the  Toprank
class." Or finally,  "Some of  our younger men have transferred to Toprank--
one or two  even to  Much-Striving. It is probably their wisest plan. We are
quite  happy  to let  them succeed in that  way. An exchange  of  ideas  and
personnel  is  a good thing-- although, to be sure, the few men we  have had
from Toprank have been rather  disappointing. We can  only expect the people
they have thrown out. Ah well, we must not grumble. We always avoid friction
when we can. And, in our humble way we can claim to be doing a good job."
     What do these remarks  suggest? They suggest-- or, rather, they clearly
indicate-- that the standard of achievement has been set too low. Only a low
standard  is  desired  and one  still  lower  is acceptable.  The directives
issuing  from a second-rate chief and addressed to his third-rate executives
speak only  of  minimum  aims and  ineffectual means. A  higher  standard of
competence  is not desired, for an 83 efficient organization would be beyond
the  chief's power  to  control.  The  motto,  "Ever  third-rate"  has  been
inscribed over  the main  entrance  in letters of  gold. Third-rateness  has
become  a  principle  of  policy.  It  will be observed,  however, that  the
existence of higher  standards  is still recognized. There remains  at  this
primary  stage a hint  of  apology,  a feeling of uneasiness when Toprank is
mentioned. Neither this apology  nor unease lasts for long. The second stage
of the disease comes on quickly and it is this we must now describe.
     The  secondary  stage is recognized  by  its  chief symptom,  which  is
Smugness.  The  aims have  been  set  low and  have  therefore  been largely
achieved. The target has been  set up within  ten yards of the  firing point
and the  scoring has therefore  been high. The directors have done what they
set out to do. This  soon fills them with self-satisfaction. They set out to
do something and they have done it. They  soon  forget that  it was  a small
effort to gain a small  result. They observe only that they have succeeded--
unlike  those  people at  Much-Striving. They become  increasingly smug  and
their smugness reveals itself in remarks such as this: "The chief is a sound
man and very  clever when you get to know him.  He never says much-- that is
not his way-- but he seldom makes a mistake." (These last  words can be said
with justice of someone who never does anything at all.) Or this: "We rather
distrust brilliance  here. These clever  people  can be a dreadful nuisance,
upsetting  established routine and proposing  all sorts  of  schemes that we
have never seen tried. We obtain splendid results by simple common sense and
teamwork." And finally  this: "Our canteen is something we are really rather
proud of. We don't 84 know how the  caterer can produce  so good a lunch  at
the price. We are lucky to have him!" This last remark is made as we  sit at
a table covered with dirty oilcloth, facing an uneatable, nameless mess on a
plate and shuddering at the sight and smell of  what passes  for  coffee. In
point of fact, the canteen reveals more than the office. Just as for a quick
verdict  we judge a  private house by inspection  of the WC (to find whether
there is a spare toilet roll), just as we judge a  hotel by the state of the
cruet, so we judge a larger institution by the appearance of the canteen. If
the decoration is  in dark brown and pale green; if the curtains  are purple
(or  absent); if there  are no flowers  in sight; if there is  barley in the
soup (with  or without a dead fly); if the menu is one of hash and mold; and
if  the  executives are  still  delighted  with  everything-- why,  then the
institution is  in a pretty bad  way. For self-satisfaction, in such a case,
has reached the point at which those responsible  cannot tell the difference
between food and filth. This is smugness made absolute.
     The tertiary and last  stage of  the disease is one in which apathy has
taken  the place of  smugness. The  executives  no  longer  boast  of  their
efficiency as compared with some other institution. They have forgotten that
any other  institution exists.  They  have  ceased to  eat in  the  canteen,
preferring now to bring sandwiches  and scatter their desks with the crumbs.
The bulletin  boards carry notices  about the concert  that took  place four
years ago,  Mr. Brown's  office  has a  nameplate saying, "Mr.  Smith."  Mr.
Smith's door is marked, "Mr. Robinson,"  in faded ink on an adhesive luggage
label. The broken windows have been repaired with odd bits of cardboard. The
electric light switches give a 85 slight but painful shock when touched. The
whitewash is flaking off  the ceiling and the paint is blotchy on the walls.
The elevator is  out of order  and  the cloakroom tap cannot  be turned off.
Water from the  broken skylight drips wide of the bucket placed to catch it,
and from somewhere in  the basement comes the wail of a hungry cat. The last
stage of  the  disease has brought the whole  organization to the  point  of
collapse. The symptoms of the disease in this acute form are so numerous and
evident that a trained investigator can often detect them over the telephone
without visiting the place at all. When  a weary voice answers "Ullo!" (that
most unhelpful of replies), the expert has often heard enough. He shakes his
head sadly as he replaces the receiver. "Well  on in the tertiary phase," he
will mutter to himself, "and almost certainly inoperable." It is too late to
attempt any sort of treatment. The institution is practically dead.
     We  have now described this disease as seen from within  and then again
from outside. We know now the origin,  the progress, and the  outcome of the
infection, as also the  symptoms  by which its presence is detected. British
medical skill seldom goes  beyond that point in its research. Once a disease
has been identified, named, described, and  accounted  for,  the British are
usually  quite satisfied and  ready  to  investigate  the next problem  that
presents itself. If asked about  treatment they look  surprised and  suggest
the use of  penicillin  preceded or followed  by the extraction  of  all the
patient's teeth. It becomes  clear at once that this is not an aspect of the
subject that interests them. Should our  attitude  be the same? Or should we
as political scientists consider what, if anything, can be done about it? It
86  would  be premature,  no doubt, to  discuss  any  possible treatment  in
detail, but it  might be  useful to indicate very generally the lines  along
which a solution might be attempted. Certain principles, at  least, might be
laid down. Of such principles, the first  would have  to be this: a diseased
institution cannot reform itself. There are instances, we know, of a disease
vanishing without treatment, just  as it appeared without warning; but these
cases are rare and regarded by the specialist as irregular  and undesirable.
The  cure, whatever its  nature, must  come  from outside. For a  patient to
remove  his  own  appendix  under a  local  anaesthetic  may  be  physically
possible, but  the practice is  regarded  with disfavor  and is open to many
objections. Other operations lend themselves still less to the patient's own
dexterity. The first  principle we can safely  enunciate is that the patient
and  the surgeon should not be the same person. When an institution is in an
advanced state of  disease, the  services of  a  specialist are required and
even,  in  some instances,  the services of the  greatest  living authority:
Parkinson himself. The fees payable may be very heavy indeed, but in  a case
of this sort, expense is  clearly  no  object. It is a matter, after all, of
life and death.
     The  second principle we might lay down is this, that the primary stage
of the  disease  can be  treated by a  simple  injection, that the secondary
stage can be cured in some instances by surgery, and that the tertiary stage
must be regarded  at present  as incurable. There was a time when physicians
used to babble about  bottles and  pills, but this  is  mainly  out of date.
There was another period when they talked more vaguely about psychology; but
that too  is  out  of  date, most  of the  psychoanalysts having  since been
certified 87 as insane. The present age is one  of injections and  incisions
and it  behooves  the political scientists to keep in step with the Faculty.
Confronted  by  a   case  of  primary   infection,  we  prepare  a   syringe
automatically  and  only  hesitate as  to  what,  besides water,  it  should
contain. In principle, the  injection should contain some active substance--
but from which group should it  be selected? A kill-or-cure  injection would
contain a high  proportion  of Intolerance, but this drug  is  difficult  to
procure  and sometimes too  powerful  to use. Intolerance is obtainable from
the  bloodstream  of regimental sergeant majors and is found to comprise two
chemical   elements,  namely:  (a)   the   best  is  scarcely  good   enough
(GGnth)    and    (b)   there   is   no   excuse   for   anything
(NEnth).  Injected  into  a diseased institution, the  intolerant
individual has a tonic effect and may cause the organism to turn against the
original source  of infection. While this treatment may well do good, it  is
by no means certain that the cure will be permanent. It is doubtful, that is
to say, whether the  infected substance will be actually  expelled  from the
system. Such information as we have  rather leads  us  to suppose  that this
treatment is merely palliative in the first  instance, the disease remaining
latent  though inactive. Some  authorities believe that repeated  injections
would result in  a  complete cure, but others  fear  that repetition of  the
treatment would set up a fresh irritation, only slightly less dangerous than
the original  disease.  Intolerance is a  drug to  be used, therefore,  with
caution.
     There exists a rather milder drug called Ridicule, but its operation is
uncertain,  its character unstable, and  its effects too little known. There
is little  reason to fear that any 88 damage could result from an  injection
of  ridicule,  but neither is  it  evident that  a cure would  result. It is
generally agreed that the injelitant individual will have  developed a thick
protective skin, insensitive to  ridicule. It may well be that  ridicule may
tend to isolate the infection, but that is as much  as could be expected and
more indeed than has been claimed.
     We may note, finally, that Castigation, which is easily obtainable, has
been tried in cases of this sort and not wholly without effect.  Here again,
however, there are difficulties. This  drug is an immediate stimulus but can
produce a result the exact opposite of what  the specialist intends. After a
momentary spasm of activity, the injelitant individual will often prove more
supine  than before and just as harmful as a source of infection. If any use
can be made of castigation it will almost certainly  be as one element  in a
preparation  composed otherwise of  intolerance and  ridicule,  with perhaps
other  drugs as  yet  untried.  It  only  remains  to  point out  that  this
preparation does not as yet exist.
     The  secondary  stage  of  the  disease  we  believe  to  be  operable.
Professional readers will  all have heard  of the Nuciform  Sack  and of the
work generally  associated  with the name  of Cutler Walpole. The  operation
first performed  by that  great surgeon involves, simply, the removal of the
infected parts and  the simultaneous introduction  of new blood drawn from a
similar organism. This operation has sometimes succeeded. It is only fair to
add that it has also sometimes failed. The  shock  to the system can be  too
great. The new  blood may be unobtainable and may fail, even when  procured,
to  mingle with  the blood previously in  89 circulation. On the other hand,
this drastic method offers, beyond question, the  best chance of a  complete
cure.
     The tertiary stage presents us with no opportunity  to do anything. The
institution is for all practical purposes dead. It can be founded afresh but
only  with  a  change of name, a change of site,  and an entirely  different
staff.  The temptation,  for  the economically minded, is  to  transfer some
portion of  the original staff  to  the new  institution-- in the  name, for
example,  of  continuity. Such a transfusion would  certainly be fatal,  and
continuity is the very thing to  avoid.  No portion of the old  and diseased
foundation  can  be regarded as free from infection. No staff, no equipment,
no  tradition must  be  removed from  the  original site.  Strict quarantine
should be  followed by complete  disinfection. Infected  personnel should be
dispatched  with a warm  testimonial  to  such  rival  institutions  as  are
regarded with particular  hostility.  All  equipment  and  files  should  be
destroyed  without  hesitation. As  for  the buildings, the  best plan is to
insure  them heavily and then  set them  alight.  Only when  the site  is  a
blackened ruin can we feel certain that the germs of the disease are dead.



     90






     READERS WHO are all too familiar with popular works on anthropology may
be  interested to learn  that  some  recent investigations  have  involved a
completely novel approach. The ordinary anthropologist is one who spends six
weeks or  six months (or  even sometimes six years)  among, say,  the Boreyu
tribe  at their settlement on  the  Upper  Teedyas River, Darndreeryland. He
then returns to  civilization  with  his  photographs, tape  recorders,  and
notebooks, eager to  write his book  about  sex  life and superstition.  For
tribes such as the Boreyu, life is made intolerable by  all this peering and
prying.  They often become  converts to Presbyterianism  in the belief  that
they will thereupon cease to be of interest to  anthropologists; nor in fact
has this device been known to  fail. But  enough primitive people remain for
the purposes of science. Books continue to multiply, and when the last tribe
has resorted to the singing  of hymns in  self-defense,  there are still the
poor  of the backstreets.  These are perpetually pursued  by  questionnaire,
camera, and phonograph; and the written results are familiar to us all. What
is new  about  the approach  now being  attempted  is not  the technique  of
investigation  but   the  choice  of   a   society  91  in  which  to  work.
Anthropologists of this latest school ignore the  primitive and have no time
for the poor. They prefer to do their fieldwork among the rich.
     The  team whose work  we shall now  describe, and to which  the present
author is  attached, made certain preliminary studies  among  Greek Shipping
Magnates and went on to deal in greater detail  with the Arab Chieftains  of
the  Pipeline. When this line  of  investigation had to  be  abandoned,  for
political  and  other  reasons,  the  team  went  on  to  study the  Chinese
Millionaires of Singapore. It is there we encountered the Flunky Puzzle.  It
is there  we  first heard  of  the Chinese Hound Barrier.  During the  early
stages of our inquiry we did not know the meaning of either term. We did not
even know whether they were different names  for the same thing. What we can
claim now is that we at least followed up the first clue to present itself.
     This  clue we obtained in the course of a visit to the Singapore palace
of Mr.  Hu Got  Dow. Turning  to the equerry  who  had shown  him round  the
millionaire's collection of jade,  Dr.  Meddleton exclaimed, "Gee,  and they
say  he began life as  a coolie!" To  this the  inscrutable Chinese replied,
"Only coolie can become millionaire. Only coolie  can look like coolie. Only
velly  lich man can afford to look lich." Upon these few and enigmatic words
(of which no further  explanation  was offered) we based our whole scheme of
research. The  detailed  results are comprised  in the  Meddleton-Snooperage
Report  (1956) but there is no reason why  they should not be presented in a
simplified  form  for  the general  reader.  What  follows  is just such  an
outline, with technicalities mostly omitted.
     Up   to  a   point,   as  we  recognized,  the  problem   of   the   92
coolie-millionaire offers no  real difficulty. The Chinese coolie lives in a
palm-thatched hovel  on  a  bowl of  rice. When he has  risen  to  a  higher
occupation-- hawking peanuts, for example, from a barrow-- he still lives on
rice and still lives in a hovel. When he has risen farther-- to the selling,
say, of possibly stolen bicycle  parts, he keeps to his hovel  and his rice.
The result is that he has money to invest. Of ten coolies in this situation,
nine will lose their  money  by unwise speculation. The tenth will be clever
or lucky. He will live, nevertheless, in his hovel. He will eat, as  before,
his rice. As a success technique this is well worthy of study.
     In the American log cabin story the point is soon reached at  which the
future millionaire must  wear a  tie. He explains that he  cannot  otherwise
inspire confidence. He must also  acquire a better address, purely (he says)
to  gain prestige.  In point of fact, the  tie is to please his wife and the
address  to satisfy  his  daughter. The Chinese have  their womenfolk  under
better control. So  the prosperous coolie sticks to his hovel  and his rice.
This is a known fact and  admits of two explanations. In the first place his
home (whatever its other disadvantages) has undeniably brought  him luck. In
the second  place, a better house would unquestionably attract the notice of
the  tax collector.  So he wisely stays where  he is. He will often keep the
original hovel-- at  any rate  as an office-- for  the rest of his life.  He
quits it so reluctantly  that  his decision  to move marks a major crisis in
his career.
     When  he  moves  it  is  primarily  to evade  the  exactions of  secret
societies, blackmailers, and gangs. To conceal  his growing  wealth from the
tax collector  is  a relatively easy 93 matter;  but to conceal  it from his
business associates is practically impossible. Once the word goes round that
he is prospering, accurate guesses will  be made as to the  sum for which he
can  be  "touched."   All  this  is  admittedly  well  known,  but  previous
investigators have  jumped too readily to the conclusion that there is  only
one sum involved. In point of fact there are three: the sum the victim would
pay  if  kidnaped  and  held  to  ransom; the  sum he  would pay  to  keep a
defamatory article out of a Chinese newspaper; the sum he would subscribe to
charity rather than lose face.
     Our task was to  ascertain the figure the first sum  will  have reached
(on  an average) at the moment when  migration takes place from the original
hovel to a  well-fenced house guarded by an Alsatian hound. It  is this move
that has been termed "Breaking the Hound Barrier." Social scientists believe
that  it will tend to occur as  soon  as the ransom  to be  exacted comes to
exceed the overhead costs of the "snatch."
     At about the time a prosperous  Chinese changes  house he  has also  to
acquire  a Chevrolet  or  Packard. Such a purchase often, however, antedates
the change of  address. So the spectacle of  the expensive  car  outside the
dingy office is too familiar to arouse much comment. No complete explanation
has so far been offered. Conceding, as we may, the need for a car, we should
rather expect it to share the  squalor  of its surroundings. For reasons not
yet apparent,  however, Chinese  prosperity is first and  fairly measured in
terms of chromium, upholstery, make, and year. And the Packard will involve,
very  soon,  a  wire  fence, barred windows, padlocked garage, and hound.  A
revolutionary change  has occurred. If the Alsatian-owner does 94 not go  so
far as to pay his taxes, he must at least know how to explain why no taxable
income has so far  come his way. And supposing he can avoid  paying $100,000
to gangsters, he can hardly avoid payment of blackmail in some form. He must
expect to receive  obsequious journalists who claim  credit for  refusing to
publish hostile  articles about him in dubious journals. He  must  expect to
see the same journalists a week later, this time collecting  funds for  some
vaguely described orphanage. He must accustom himself to the visits of trade
union officials offering for  a consideration to discourage  the  industrial
unrest that will otherwise affect his interests. He  must resign himself, in
fact, to the loss of a percentage.
     One of our objects  was to compile some detailed information about  the
Alsatian-owning phase of a Chinese businessman's  career. This was,  in some
ways, the most difficult part of the whole investigation. There are types of
knowledge only to  be gained  at  the  price  of torn trousers and  bandaged
ankles.  We  are  proud  to  think,  in  retrospect,  that  where risks were
inevitable they were taken unflinchingly. No fieldwork was  needed, however,
to discover what actual amounts  are  paid in ransom. These  figures  are in
fact generally known  and often quoted in the local press with some pretense
at accuracy. What is significant  about  these figures is  the range between
the smallest and the largest figures  quoted. Sums appear to vary from $5000
to $200,000-- never as little  as  $2000 nor as  much as  $500,000. Nor  can
there be any doubt  that  the  majority of extortions fall within a narrower
range than that. Further research will, no doubt, establish what the average
amount can be taken to be. 95 96



     If we suppose that the  minimum extortion represents a figure just high
enough  to  yield a marginal profit, we shall  as readily  conclude that the
maximum extortion represents all that can  be extracted from the richest men
that  are ever kidnaped. It is manifest, however,  that  the very wealthiest
men  are never kidnaped  at all. There would seem to be a point beyond which
the Chinese gains immunity from blackmail. In this last phase, moreover, the
millionaire  97   seeks  to  emphasize  rather  than   conceal  his  wealth,
demonstrating publicly that  the point of immunity has been reached. So far,
no social  scientist of our team  has been  able to discover how this  final
immunity is achieved. Several have been thrown out of the Millionaires' Club
when  trying to  collect  evidence on  this  point. Concluding that  it  has
something  to  do  with  the  number of  equerries, aides-de-camp,  personal
assistants, secretaries, and valets (all much  in  evidence  at  this stage)
they have termed the problem "The Flunky Puzzle" and left it at that.
     It is  not to  be supposed however that this problem will baffle us for
long. Indeed,  we  know already  that  our choice  lies,  broadly  speaking,
between two alternative explanations, with the proviso that we may  possibly
end by  accepting  both. One guess has been  that  the  flunkies are  really
gunmen forming  an impenetrable  bodyguard.  The  other guess  is  that  the
millionaire has bought up an entire secret society and one against which  no
other gang  dare  act.  To test the former theory--  by a  carefully  staged
holdup--  would be relatively  simple. At the cost of a life or two the fact
could be established beyond all reasonable doubt. To test the  latter theory
would need more brains and  possibly more courage.  With several  casualties
already among the  brave dog-bitten members  of our  team, we  did  not feel
justified  in  pursuing this line  of research.  We  concluded  that  we had
neither  the men  nor the funds to complete the investigation.  Having since
received timely aid from the  Miss Plaste Trust (Far East branch) we hope to
know the answer fairly soon.
     A  problem that remains, even  after the  publication  of  our  interim
report,  is the enigma of Chinese tax evasion. 98 All that we could discover
about this was that  Western methods are not widely used. As is well  known,
the Western technique depends on discovering the standard delay (or S.D., as
we call it among  ourselves) in the  department with which we  have to deal.
That is, of course, the normal lapse of time between the receipt of a letter
and its being  dealt with. It is, to be more exact, the time it takes  for a
file  to  rise  from the bottom  of the in-tray to  the  top  of  the  pile.
Supposing  this to be twenty-seven  days,  the Western tax evader begins his
campaign by writing  to ask why he has received  no notice of assessment. It
does  not matter, actually,  what he says in the letter. All he  wants is to
ensure  that his file, with its new enclosure,  will be at the bottom of the
heap. Twenty-five days later  he will write  again,  asking  why  his  first
letter has not been  answered. This sends his file back to the bottom  again
just when it was almost reaching the top.  Twenty-five days  later he writes
again. ... So his file  is never dealt  with at all and never in fact  comes
into view.  This  being  the  method  known to  us  all,  and  known  to  be
successful, we naturally concluded that it was known also to the Chinese. We
found, however, that these is no S.D.  in the East.  Owing to variations  in
climate  and sobriety, the  government departments lack that ordered  rhythm
which  would make  them  predictable. Whatever method  the  Chinese use,  it
cannot depend upon a known S.D.
     To this problem we have, it  should be  emphasized, no final  solution.
All we have is a theory upon the validity of which it  would be premature to
comment.  It was put forward by one of our  most brilliant investigators and
can be described as no more  than an  inspired  guess. According 99 to  this
supposition the Chinese millionaire does  not wait  for his  assessment, but
prefers to send  the tax collector a check  in advance for,  say, $329.83. A
covering note  refers briefly  to earlier correspondence and a previous  sum
paid   in  cash.  The  effect  of  this  maneuver  is  to  throw  the  whole
tax-collecting machine out of gear.  Disorganization  turns to chaos  when a
further  letter  arrives,   apologizing   for  the   error  and  asking  for
twenty-three cents back.  Officials are so perturbed and mystified that they
produce no  response  of  any kind for about eighteen  months--  and another
check reaches them before that period has elapsed, this time for $167.42. In
this  way,  the theory  goes, the millionaire pays virtually nothing and the
inspector of taxes ends in a padded cell. Unproved as this theory may be, it
seems worthy of careful investigation.  We might  at least give it  a trial.
100






     OF THE MANY problems  discussed and solved in  this work,  it is proper
that the question of retirement should be left to the  last. It has been the
subject of  many commissions  of inquiry but  the evidence heard has  always
been   hopelessly   conflicting  and  the   final  recommendations  muddled,
inconclusive, and vague.  Ages of compulsory retirement are fixed  at points
varying  from  55  to  75,  all  being equally arbitrary  and  unscientific.
Whatever age has been decreed by  accident and custom can be defended by the
same argument. Where the retirement age is fixed at 65 the defenders of this
system  will always  have found, by experience,  that  the mental powers and
energy show signs of flagging at  the age of 62. This would be a most useful
conclusion to have reached had not  a different phenomenon been observed  in
organizations where the age  of retirement has been  fixed at 60. There,  we
are told, people are found to lose their grip, in some degree, at the age of
57. As against that, men whose retiring age is 55 are known to be past their
best at 52. It would seem,  in short, that efficiency declines at the age of
R minus 3, irrespective of  the age  at which R has been fixed.  This  is an
interesting fact in itself  but  not  101  directly helpful when it comes to
deciding what the R age is to be.
     But while the  R-- 3 age is not directly  useful to us, it may serve to
suggest  that  the investigations hitherto pursued have been  on  the  wrong
lines.  The observation often made  that men  vary,  some  being old at  50,
others  still energetic at 80 or  90, may  well  be true, but here again the
fact leads us nowhere. The truth is that the age of retirement should not be
related in any way to the man whose retirement we are considering. It is his
successor we have to watch: the  man (Y) destined  to replace the  other man
(X) when  the latter retires.  He will pass, as is well known, the following
stages in his successful career:

     1. Age of Qualification -- Q
     2. Age of Discretion = D (Q + 3)
     3. Age of Promotion = P (D + 7)
     4. Age of Responsibility = R (P + 5)
     5. Age of Authority = A (R + 3)
     6. Age of Achievement = AA (A + 7)
     7. Age of Distinction = DD (AA + 9)
     8. Age of Dignity = DDD (DD + 6)
     9. Age of Wisdom = W (DDD + 3)
     10. Age of Obstruction = OO (W + 7)

     The above scale is governed  by the numerical value of  Q. Now, Q is to
be  understood as  a technical term. It does not mean that  a man at Q knows
anything of the business he will have  to transact. Architects, for example,
pass  some form of examination but are seldom found to know  anything useful
at that point  (or indeed any other point)  in 102  their career. The term Q
means the  age at  which a professional  or business career  begins, usually
after an  elaborate  training that  has proved profitable only to those paid
for organizing it. It will be seen that if Q = 22, X will not reach OO  (the
Age  of  Obstruction) until  he  is  72.  So  far  as his  own efficiency is
concerned,  there is no valid reason for replacing him  until he is  71. But
our problem centers not on him but on Y, his destined successor. How are the
ages of X  and Y likely to compare? To be more exact,  how  old will X  have
been when Y first entered the department or firm?
     This  problem  has  been  the subject of  prolonged investigation.  Our
inquiries have tended to prove that the age gap  between X and Y is  exactly
fifteen  years.  (It is not,  we find, the normal  practice  for  the son to
succeed  the  father  directly.) Taking  this average of  fifteen years, and
assuming  that Q = 22,  we find that Y  will  have  reached  AA  (the Age of
Achievement) at  47,  when X  is  only  62. And that,  clearly, is where the
crisis  occurs.  For Y,  if  thwarted  in his  ambition  through  X's  still
retaining  control, enters, it has been proved, a different series of stages
in his career. These stages are as follows:

     6. Age of Frustration (F) = A + 7
     7. Age of Jealousy (J) = F + 9
     8. Age of Resignation (R) = J + 4
     9. Age of Oblivion (O) = R + 5

     When  X,  therefore,  is 72, Y is  57,  just  entering  on the  Age  of
Resignation. Should X at  last retire  at that age, Y is quite unfit to take
his  place, being  now  resigned  (after 103 a  decade  of  frustration  and
jealousy) to a career of mediocrity. For Y, opportunity will have come  just
ten years too late.



     The age of Frustration will not always be the same in  years, depending
as  it does on the factor Q, but its symptoms are easy to recognize. The man
who is  denied the  opportunity of  taking decisions of importance begins to
104 regard as important  the decisions  he is allowed to  take.  He  becomes
fussy about filing,  keen on  seeing that pencils  are sharpened,  eager  to
ensure that  the  windows are open (or shut),  and apt  to use  two or three
different-colored inks.  The Age of Jealousy reveals itself  in an  emphasis
upon seniority. "After all, I am still somebody." "I  was  never consulted."
"Z has very  little experience." But that period 105 gives place  to the Age
of Resignation. "I am not one  of these ambitious types." "Z is welcome to a
seat on the Board-- more trouble than it is worth, I should say." "Promotion
would only have interfered with my golf."  The theory has been advanced that
the Age of Frustration is  also marked by  an interest in local politics. It
is now known, however, that men enter  local politics  solely as a result of
being  unhappily  married.  It  will be apparent,  however, from  the  other
symptoms described, that the  man still in a subordinate  position at 47 (or
equivalent) will never be fit for anything else.
     The  problem, it  is now clear, is to  make X retire at the age of  60,
while  still  able  to  do  the work better than anyone else.  The immediate
change  may  be  for the  worse  but  the alternative is to have no possible
successor at hand when X finally goes. And the more outstanding X has proved
to be, and the longer his period of office, the more hopeless is the task of
replacing  him.  Those nearest him in the seniority are already too  old and
have been subordinate for too long. All  they can do is to block the way for
anyone junior to  them; a task  in which they will  certainly not  fail.  No
competent successor will  appear for years, nor at all until some crisis has
brought a  new  leader  to the fore. So the  hard decision  has to be taken.
Unless X goes in good  time, the whole organization will eventually  suffer.
But how is X to be moved?
     In this, as in so  many other matters, modern science is not at a loss.
The crude  methods of the past have been superseded. In  days gone by it was
usual,  no  doubt,  for  the  other  directors  to talk  inaudibly  at board
meetings, one merely opening and shutting his mouth and  another nodding 106
in apparent comprehension, thus convincing the chairman that he was actually
going deaf. But there is a modern technique that is  far more  effective and
certain. The method depends essentially on air  travel and the filling in of
forms.  Research has  shown that complete exhaustion in modern life  results
from a combination of these two  activities. The high official who  is given
enough of each will very soon begin to talk of retirement. It used to be the
custom in  primitive African  tribes  to  liquidate the  king or  chief at a
certain point in his career, either after a period of years or at the moment
when  his vital powers appeared to  have gone. Nowadays  the technique is to
lay before the great man the program of a conference at  Helsinki in June, a
congress at Adelaide  in July, and a  convention at Ottawa in  August,  each
lasting about three weeks. He is assured that the prestige of the department
or firm will depend on his presence and that the  delegation of this duty to
anyone else would be regarded as  an insult  by  all others taking part. The
program of travel will allow of his return  to the office for about three or
four days  between  one conference and  the  next. He  will find his in-tray
piled high on  each occasion  with  forms to fill  in, some relating  to his
travels, some to do with applications for  permits or quota allocations, and
the rest  headed "Income Tax." On his  completion of the  forms awaiting his
signature after  the Ottawa convention, he  will be given the program for  a
new series of conferences; one at Manila  in September, the second at Mexico
City in October, and the third at Quebec  in  November.  By December he will
admit that he is feeling his age. In January  he will announce his intention
to retire.
     The  essence of this technique is  so  to arrange  matters 107 that the
conferences are held at  places the maximum distance apart  and  in climates
offering  the  sharpest  contrast  in  heat  and cold.  There  should  be no
possibility whatever of a restful sea voyage in any part of the schedule. It
must be air  travel  all the way. No  particular care need  be  taken in the
choice between one route and another. All are alike in being planned for the
convenience of the  mails rather  than  the  passengers.  It can  safely  be
assumed, almost without inquiry,  that most  flights will involve takeoff at
2.50 A.M.,  reporting  at the airfield at  1.30 and weighing  baggage at the
terminal at 12.45. Arrival  will  be scheduled for 3.10 A.M. on the next day
but  one.  The  aircraft  will  invariably,  however,  be somewhat  overdue,
touching down  in  fact at  3.57  A.M., so that passengers will be clear  of
customs and immigration by about 4.35. Going one way around the world, it is
possible and indeed customary  to have breakfast about  three times.  In the
opposite direction  the passengers will have nothing  to eat for hours  at a
stretch, being  finally offered a  glass  of sherry  when  on  the  point of
collapse from malnutrition. Most  of the flight time will of course be spent
in filling in  various declarations about currency and health. How much have
you  in dollars (U.S.), pounds  (sterling), francs,  marks,  guilders,  yen,
lire,  and  pounds (Australian);  how much  in letters  of credit, travelers
checks,  postage  stamps, and postal orders? Where did you  sleep last night
and  the  night  before that? (This  last  is an easy question, for  the air
traveler is usually able to declare, in good faith, that he has not slept at
all  for the past week.) When were you  born and what was your grandmother's
maiden name? How many children have you  and why? What will be the length of
your stay and where? What is 108 the object of your visit, if any? (As if by
now you could even remember.) Have you had chicken pox and why not? Have you
a visa for  Patagonia and  a re-entry permit for Hongkong? The  penalty  for
making  a  false declaration is  life imprisonment.  Fasten your seat belts,
please.  We are about to land at Rangoon. Local time  is  2.47 A.M.  Outside
temperature is 110° F. We  shall stop  here for approximately  one hour.
Breakfast  will  be  served on the aircraft five hours  after takeoff. Thank
you. (For what, in heaven's name?) No smoking, please.
     It   will   be   observed   that   air   travel,   considered   as    a
retirement-accelerator, has the advantage  of  including  a fair  amount  of
form-filling. But form-filling proper is a separate ordeal, not  necessarily
connected with travel. The art of devising forms to be filled  in depends on
three  elements: obscurity,  lack  of space, and the heaviest penalties  for
failure. In  a  form-compiling department, obscurity  is  ensured by various
branches  dealing respectively with ambiguity, irrelevance,  and jargon. But
some of the  simpler  devices have now become  automatic. Thus,  a  favorite
opening gambit is a section,  usually  in the  top right-hand corner, worded
thus:


 Return rendered in respect of the month of  


     As you have been sent the form on February 16, you have no idea whether
it relates to last month, this month or next. Only the  sender  knows  that,
but  he is  asking you. At  this  point  the  ambiguity  expert  takes over,
collaborating closely with a space consultant, and this is the result: 109


 
  Cross out
     the word
     which does
     not apply  Full
     name  Address  Domicile  When
     naturalized
     and why  Status 
  Mr.
     Mrs.
     Miss      


     Such a form as this  is especially designed, of  course, for a Colonel,
Lord,   Professor,   or   Doctor   called    Alexander   Winthrop   Percival
Blenkinsop-Fotheringay   of   Battleaxe   Towers,   Layer-de-la-Haye,   near
Newcastle-under-Lyme,  Lincolnshire-parts-of-Kesteven  (whatever  that   may
mean). Follows the word "Domicile," which is practically  meaningless except
to an  international  lawyer,  and  after that  a  mysterious  reference  to
naturalization.  Lastly,  we  have  the  word  "Status,"  which  leaves  the
filler-in wondering  whether to put "Admiral (Ret'd),"  "Married," "American
Citizen" or "Managing Director."
     Now  the  ambiguity  expert  hands over the  task to  a  specialist  in
irrelevance, who calls in a new space allocator to advise on layout:


  
    Number of your  identity  card or  passport    Your
grandfather's full name   Your grandmother's maiden  name   Have you
been vaccinated, inoculated; when & why  Give full details 
 
       
  Note: The penalty  for furnishing incorrect
information may be a  fine of &sterling;5000 or a year's penal servitude, or
quite possibly both. 


110
     Then the  half-completed work of art is sent to  the jargon specialist,
who produces something on these lines:


What  special  circumstances283  are  alleged   to
justify the adjusted allocation for which request is made  in respect of the
quota period  to which the former application143 relates, whether
or not the  former level had been  revised  and in what  sense and  for what
purpose and whether this or any previous application made by any other party
or  parties  has  been  rejected  by  any  other  planning  authority  under
subsection VII36 or for any other reason, and whether this or the
latter  decision was made the subject  of an appeal and with what result and
why.  


     Finally,   the   form   goes   to   the   technician,   who  adds   the
space-for-signature section, the finish that crowns the whole.


 
  I/we [block  capitals] ............ declare
under penalty that all the information I/we have furnished above  is true to
the  best  of my/our knowledge,  as  witness  my/our  signature signed  this
........ day of ........ 19 ....,
     (Signature) ..................................
     
 WITNESS:
     Name .............
     Address ...........
     Occupation ........  
 Photograph
     Passport
     Size
 		 Seal .............
     
Thumb
     print
 
 
 


     This is quite  straightforward except for the final touch  of confusion
as to whose  photograph  or thumb  print is wanted, the  I/we person  or the
witness. It probably does not matter, anyway. 111
     Experiment has shown that an elderly man in a responsible position will
soon  be forced  to  retire  if  given sufficient air  travel and sufficient
forms. Instances  are frequent,  moreover, of such elderly men  deciding  to
retire  before  the treatment has  even  begun.  At the  first mention of  a
conference at Stockholm or Vancouver, they often realize that their time has
arrived. Very rarely nowadays is it  necessary to  adopt methods of a severe
character. The last recorded resort to these was in a period soon after  the
conclusion  of World War II. The high official  concerned  was  particularly
tough  and the only remedy found was to send him on a tour of  tin mines and
rubber estates in Malaya. This method is best tried in January, and with jet
aircraft  to  make the  climatic transition more abrupt.  On landing at 5.52
P.M. (Malayan time)  this  official was  rushed off at once  to  a  cocktail
party, from  that to another  cocktail party (held at a house fifteen  miles
from the hotel  where the first took place), and from that to a dinner party
(eleven  miles  in the opposite direction). He was in bed by about 2.30 A.M.
and on board an aircraft at seven the next morning. Landing at  Ipoh in time
for  a belated breakfast, he was then taken to visit two  rubber estates,  a
tin  mine, an  oil-palm plantation, and a  factory  for canning  pineapples.
After lunch, given by  the Rotary Club, he was taken to a  school, a clinic,
and a  community  center. There followed two cocktail parties and  a Chinese
banquet  of twenty courses,  the numerous toasts being drunk  in neat brandy
served  in tumblers. The formal discussion on policy began next  morning and
lasted for three days, the  meetings interspersed with formal receptions and
nightly banquets  in Sumatran or  Indian style. That the  treatment  was too
severe was 112  fairly apparent  by the fifth  day,  during the afternoon of
which the  distinguished  visitor  could  walk  only  when  supported  by  a
secretary on one side, a personal assistant on  the  other. On the sixth day
he died, thus confirming the general impression that he must have been tired
or  unwell.  Such methods as these  are now discountenanced,  and have since
indeed proved needless. People are learning to retire in time.
     But a serious problem remains. What are we ourselves to do when nearing
the retirement age we have fixed for others? It will be obvious at once that
our  own case  is  entirely  different from any  other case we  have so  far
considered. We do not  claim to be  outstanding in  any way, but  it just so
happens  that  there is no  possible successor in sight. It  is with genuine
reluctance that we agree to postpone  our retirement for a few years, purely
in the public interest. And when a senior member of staff approaches us with
details of a conference at  Teheran or  Hobart, we promptly  wave  it aside,
announcing that all conferences are a  waste of time. "Besides," we continue
blandly, "my  arrangements are already made. I  shall be salmon fishing  for
the next two months and will return to this office at the end of October, by
which date  I shall  expect all  the  forms to have been filled in.  Goodbye
until then." We knew how  to make  our predecessors retire. When it comes to
forcing our own retirement,  our successors must  find some  method of their
own. 113






     This ponderous gentleman, Mr. Cypher, whose stirring story may be found
in the  chapter on  Injelititis, is pictured at the moment of his preferment
for  his  "better  judgment." C.  Northcote  Parkinson  does  not claim,  by
Cypher's  standards, to  have any judgment at all.  Nonetheless, he  is  the
Raffles Professor of  History at the University of  Malaya and the author of
some  seventeen  scholarly  publications.  Born  at Barnard  Castle,  County
Durham, in 1909, he  was educated  at St. Peter's School, York,  and at  the
Universities  of  Cambridge and London.  In  turn, he has taught at  several
academic,  naval,  and  military institutions.  Perhaps  his  most  valuable
education, however, dates from his work in the War Office and the RAF during
World War II, for it is known  that from  this experience Parkinson's  great
Law came into being.


Last-modified: Mon, 24 Jan 2005 19:30:40 GMT

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