by Gene Wolfe
“Well, it seemed to me,” Forlesen said, “that one of the first things to do would be to take Miss Fenton aside and explain to her that her work was unsatisfactory, and perhaps hear what she had to say.”
“Miss who?”
“Fetton, the girl in the problem.”
“Right, and I see what you mean. However, since it specifically says what I read to you, and nothing else more than that, then if I was to tell you something else it would be structured different for you than for the other fellows. See what I mean?”
After thinking for a moment Forlesen said, “I don’t see how I can check any of the boxes knowing no more than I do now. Is it all right if I write my own solution?”
“You mean, draw a little box for yourself?”
“Yes, and write what I said after it—I mean, what I outlined to you a minute ago. That I’d talk to her.”
“I don’t think there’s room on the paper for all that, fella. I mean, you said quite a bit.”
Forlesen said, “I think I can boil it down.”
“Well, we can’t allow it anyway. These things are scored by a computer and we have to give it an answer—what I’m driving at is, the number of your answer. Like the girl codes in the I.D. number of each participant and then the problem number, and then the answer number, like one or two or three. Or then if she puts like twenty-three it knows you answered two AND three. That would be indicate to her that her work has been satisfactory but hint that she may be laid off, and offer her a six-week leave of absence without pay during which she may obtain further training. You get it?”
“You’re telling me that that’s the right answer,” Forlesen said. “Twenty-three.”
“Listen, hell no! I don’t know what the right answer is, only the machine does; maybe there isn’t any right answer at all. I was just trying to give you a kind of a hint—what I’d do if I was in your shoes. You want to get a good grade, don’t you?”
“Is it important?”
“I would say that it’s important—I think it’s important to any man to know he did something like this and he did good—wouldn’t you say so? But like we said at the start of the course, your grade is your personal thing. We’re going to give grades, sure, on a scale of seven hundred and fifty-seven—that’s the top—to forty-nine, but nobody knows your grade but you. You’re told your own grade and your class standing and your standing among everybody here who’s ever taken the course—naturally that doesn’t mean much, the problems change all the time—but what you do with that information is up to you. You evaluate yourself. I know there have been these rumors about Mr. Frick coming in and asking the computer questions, but it’s not true—frankly I don’t think Mr. Frick even knows how to program. It doesn’t just talk to you, you know.”
“I didn’t get to attend the first part of the course,” Forlesen said. “I’m filling in for Cappy Dillingham. He died.”
“Sorry to hear that. Old age, I guess.”
“I don’t know.”
“Probably that was it. Hell, it seems like it was only yesterday I was talking to him about his grade after class—he had some question about one oh four, I don’t even remember what it was now. Old Cappy. Wow.”
“How was he doing?” Forlesen asked.
“Not too hot. I had him figured for about a five-fifty, give or take twenty—but listen, if you had seen the earlier stuff you wouldn’t be asking these questions now. You’d of been guided into it—see what I mean?”
Forlesen said: “I just don’t see how I can mark this. I’m going to return the unmarked sheet under protest.”
“I told you, we can’t score something like that.”
Forlesen said, “Well, that’s what I’m going to do,” and hung up.
His desk said: “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? He’s going to call you back.”
Forlesen looked for the speaker but could not find it.
“I heard you talking to Franklin too; and I saw you throw away the Management Responsibilities list. Do you know that in a lot of the offices here you find that framed and hung on the wall? Some of them hang it where they can see it, and some of them hang it where their visitors can see it.”
“Which kind get promoted?” Forlesen asked. He had decided the speaker was under the center desk drawer, and was on his hands and knees looking for it.
“The kind that fit in,” the desk said.
Forlesen said, “What kind of an answer is that?” The telephone rang and he answered it.
“Mr. Forlesen, please.” It was Fairchild.
“Speaking.”
“I was wondering about number one oh five—have you sent it back yet?”
“I just put it in my outbox,” Forlesen said. “They haven’t picked it up yet.” Vaguely he wondered if Miss Fawn was supposed to empty the outbox, or if anyone was; perhaps he was supposed to do it himself.
“Good, good. Listen, I’ve been thinking about what you said—do you think that if I told you what was wrong with this girl you’d be able to size her up better? The thing is, she just doesn’t fit in; you know what I mean?”
“No,” Forlesen said.
“Let me give you an example. Guys come in the office all the time, either to talk to me or just because they haven’t anything better to do. They kid around with the girls, you know? Okay, this girl, you never know how she’s going to take it. Sometimes she gets mad. Sometimes she thinks the guy really wants to get romantic, and she wants to go along with it.”
“I’d think they’d learn to leave her alone,” Forlesen said.
“Believe me, they have. And the other girls don’t like her—they come in to me and say they want to be moved away from her desk.”
“Do they say why?”
“Oh, hell, no. Listen, if you’d ever bossed a bunch of women you’d know better than that; the way they always put it is the light isn’t good there, or it’s too close to the keypunch—too noisy—or it’s too far from the keypunch and they don’t wanna have to walk that far, or they want to be closer to somebody they do like. But you know how it is—I’ve moved her all around the damn office and everybody wants to get away; she’s Typhoid Mary.”
“Make her your permanent secretary,” Forlesen said.
“What?”
“Just for a while. Give your mother a special assignment. That way you can find out what’s wrong with this girl, if anything is, which I doubt.”
“You’re crazy, Forlesen,” Fairchild said, and hung up.
The telephone rang again almost as soon as Forlesen set the receiver down. “This is Miss Fawn,” the telephone said. “Mr. Freeling wants to see you, Mr. Forlesen.”
“Mr. Freeling?”
“Mr. Freeling is Mr. Fields’s chief, Mr. Forlesen; and Mr. Fields is your chief. Mr. Freeling reports to Mr. Flint, and Mr. Flint reports directly to Mr. Frick. I am Mr. Freeling’s secretary.”
“Thank you,” Forlesen said, “I was beginning to wonder where you fit in.”
“Right out of your office, down the hall to the ‘T,’ left, up the stairs, and along the front of the building. Mr. Freeling’s name is on the door.”
“Thank you,” Forlesen said again.
Mr. Freeling’s name was on the door, in the form of a bronzelike plaque. Forlesen, remembering D’Andrea’s brass one, saw at once that Mr. Freeling’s was more modern and up-to-date, and realized that Mr. Freeling was more important than D’Andrea had been; but he also realized that D’Andrea’s plaque had been real brass and that Mr. Freeling’s was plastic. He knocked, and Miss Fawn’s voice called, “Come in.” He came in, and Miss Fawn threw a switch on her desk and said, “Mr. Forlesen to see you, Mr. Freeling.”
And then to Forlesen: “Go right in.”
Mr. Freeling’s office was large and had two windows, both overlooking the highway. Forlesen found that he was somewhat surprised to see the highway again, though it looked just as it had before. The pictures on the walls were landscapes much like Fields’s, but Mr. Freeling�
��s desk, which was quite large, was covered by a sheet of glass with photographs under it; and these were all of sailboats, and of groups of men in shorts and striped knit shirts and peaked caps.
“Sit down,” Mr. Freeling said. “Be with you in a minute.” He was a large, sunburned, squinting man, beginning to go gray. The chair in front of his desk had wooden arms and a vinyl seat made to look like ostrich hide. Forlesen sat down, wondering what Mr. Freeling wanted; and after a time it came to him that what Mr. Freeling wanted was for him to wonder this, and that Mr. Freeling would have been wiser to speak to him sooner. Mr. Freeling had a pen in his hand and was reading a letter—the same letter—over and over; at last he signed it with a scribble and laid it and the pen flat on his desk. “I should have called you in earlier to say welcome aboard,” he said, “but maybe it was better to give you a chance to drop your hook and get your jib in first. Are you finding em pee pee a snug harbor?”
“I think I would like it better,” Forlesen said, “if I knew what it was I’m supposed to be doing here.”
Freeling laughed. “Well, that’s easily fixed—Bert Fields is standing watch with you, isn’t he? Ask him for a list of your responsibilities.”
“It’s Ed Fields,” Forlesen said, “and I already have the list. What I would like to know is what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“I see what you mean,” Freeling said, “but I’m afraid I can’t tell you. If you were a lathe operator I’d say make that part, but you’re a part of management, and you can’t treat managerial people that way.”
“Go ahead,” Forlesen told him. “I won’t mind.”
Freeling cleared his throat. “That isn’t what I meant, and, quite frankly, if you think anyone here is going to feel any compulsion to be polite to you, you’re in for squalls. What I meant was that if I knew what you ought to be doing I’d hire a clerk to do it. You’re where you are because we feel—rightly or wrongly—that you can find your own work, recognize it when you see it, and do it or get somebody else to. Just make damn sure you don’t step on anybody’s toes while you’re doing it, and don’t make more trouble than you fix. Don’t rock the boat.”
“I see,” Forlesen said.
“Just make damn sure before you do anything that it’s in line with policy, and remember that if you get the unions down on us we’re going to throw you overboard quick.”
Forlesen nodded.
“And keep your hand off the tiller. Look at it this way—your job is fixing leaks. Only the sailor who’s spent most of his life down there in the hold with the oakum and … uh … Fastpatch has the experience necessary to recognize the landmarks and weathersigns. But don’t you patch a leak somebody else is already patching, or has been told to patch, or is getting ready to patch. Understand? Don’t come running to me with complaints, and don’t let me get any complaints about you. Now what was it you wanted to see me about?”
“I don’t,” Forlesen said. “You said you wanted to see me.”
“Oh. Well, I’m through.”
Outside Forlesen asked Miss Fawn how he was supposed to know what company policy was. “It’s in the air,” Miss Fawn said tartly, “you breathe it.” Forlesen suggested that it might be useful if it were written down someplace, and she said, “You’ve been here long enough to know better than that, Mr. Forlesen; you’re no kid anymore.” As he left the office she called, “Don’t forget your Creativity Group.”
He found the drilling room only after a great deal of difficulty. It was full of drill presses and jig bores—perhaps thirty or more—of which only two were being used. At one, a white-haired man was making a hole in a steel plate; he worked slowly, lifting the drill from time to time to fill the cavity with oil from a squirt-can beside the machine. At the other a much younger man sang as he worked, an obscene parody of a popular song. Forlesen was about to ask if he knew where the Creativity Group was meeting when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Fields, who said, “Looks like you found it. Come on, I’m going to make this one come hell or high water. Right through the door on the other side there.”
They threaded their way through the drill presses, most of which seemed to be out of order in some way, and were about to go through the door Fields had indicated, when Forlesen heard a yell behind them. The younger man had burned his hand in trying to change the smoking drill in his machine. “That’s a good operator,” Fields said. “He pushes everything right along—you know what I mean?” Forlesen said he did.
The creativity meeting, as Franklin had told him, was in the corridor. Folding metal chairs had been set up in groupings that looked intentionally disorganized, and a small motion picture screen stood on an easel. Franklin was wrestling with a projector resting (pretty precariously, Forlesen thought) on the seat of the rearmost chair; he had the look of not being as young as he seemed, and after he had introduced himself they sat down and watched him. From time to time others joined them, and people passing up and down the hall, mostly men in gray work clothing, ignored them all, threading their way among the tin chairs without seeming to see them and stepping skillfully around the screen, from which, from time to time, flashed faint numerals 1, 2, and 3, or the legend:
CREATIVITY MEANS JOBS
After a while Fields said, “I think we ought to get started.”
“You go ahead,” Franklin told him. “I’ll have this going in a minute.”
Fields walked to the front of the group, beside the screen, and said: “Creativity group twenty-one is now in session. I’m going to ask the man in front to write his name on a piece of paper and pass it back. Everybody sign, and do it so we can read it, please. We’re going to have a movie on creativity—”
“Creativity Means Jobs,” Franklin put in.
“Yeah, Creativity Means Jobs, then a free-form critique of the movie. Then what, Ned?”
“Open discussion on creativity in problem study.”
“You got the movie yet?”
“Just a minute.”
Forlesen looked at his watch. It was oh seventy-eight forty-five.
Someone at the front of the group, close to where Fields was now standing, said: “While we have a minute I’d like to get an objection on record to this phrase creativity in problem study. It seems to me that what it implies is that creativity is automatically going to point you toward some solution you didn’t see before, and I feel that anyone who believes that’s going to happen—anyway in most cases—doesn’t know what the hell they’re talking about.”
Fields said, “Everybody knows creativity isn’t going to solve your problems for you.”
“I said point the way,” the man objected.
Someone else said, “What creativity is going to do for you in the way of problem study is point the way to new ways of seeing your problem.”
“Not necessarily successful,” the first man said.
“Not necessarily successful,” the second man said, “if by successful what you mean is permitting you to make a non-trivial elaboration of the problem definition.”
Someone else said, “Personally I feel problem definitions don’t limit creativity,” and Fields said: “I think we’re all agreed on that when they’re creative problem definitions. Right, Ned?”
“Of creative problems.”
“Right, of creative problems. You know, Ned told me one time when he was talking to somebody about what we do at these meetings this fellow said he thought we’d just each take a lump of clay or something and, you know, start trying to make some kind of shape.” There was laughter, and Fields held up a hand good-naturedly. “Okay, it’s funny, but I think we can all learn something from that. What we can learn is, most people when we talk about our Creativity Group are thinking the same way this guy was, and that’s why, when we talk about it we got to make certain points, like for one thing creativity isn’t ever what you do alone, right? It’s your creative group that gets things going—hey, Ned, what’s the word I want?”
“Synergy.”
&n
bsp; “Yeah, and teamwork. And second, creativity isn’t about making new things—like some statue or something nobody wants. What creativity is about is solving company problems—”
Franklin called, “Hey, I’ve got this ready now.”
“Just a minute. Like you take the problem this company had when Adam Bean that founded it died. The problem was—should we go on making what we used to when he was alive, or should we make something different? That problem was solved by Mr. Dudley, as I guess everybody knows, but he wouldn’t have been able to do it without a lot of good men to help him. I personally feel that a football team is about the most creative thing there is.”
Someone brushed Forlesen’s sleeve; it was Miss Fawn, and as Fields paused, she said in her rather shrill voice, “Mr. Fields! Mr. Fields, you’re wanted on the telephone. It’s quite important.” There was something stilted in the way she delivered her lines, like a poor actress, and after a moment Forlesen realized that there was no telephone call, that she had been instructed by Fields to provide this interruption and thus give him an excuse for escaping the meeting while increasing the other participants’ estimate of his importance. After a moment more he understood that Franklin and the others knew this as well as he, and that the admiration they felt for Fields—and admiration was certainly there, surrounding the stocky man as he followed Miss Fawn out—had its root in the daring Fields had shown, and in the power implied by his securing the cooperation of Miss Fawn, Mr. Freeling’s secretary.
Someone had dimmed the lights. Creativity Means Jobs flashed on the screen, then a group of men and women in what might have been a schoolroom in a very exclusive school. One waved his hand, stood up, and spoke. There was no sound, but his eyes flashed with enthusiasm; when he sat down, an impressive-looking woman in tweeds rose, and Forlesen felt that whatever she was saying must be unanswerable, the final word on the subject under discussion; she was polite and restrained and as firm as iron, and she clearly had every fact at her fingertips.
