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
11. PALM THATCH TO PACKARD OR A FORMULA FOR SUCCESS
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
10. PENSION POINT, OR THE AGE OF RETIREMENT
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 th