by John Burke
He studied their attentive faces. Yes, there was the beginning of a controlled sneer over there: Andrew Flint, hardly able to repress his contempt for this classroom frivolity, was settling back wearily in his chair. And Crowther was openly grinning. Gerald Hornbrook, on the other hand, had a twitch of smugness about his lips. This was the sort of game he had been accustomed to playing in real life.
‘I will appoint four leaders,’ said Dampier. ‘Each leader will be regarded, for the sake of the exercise, as a General Manager. When you are shut away in your cells, he will appoint a Public Relations Officer, a Sales Manager, a Finance Manager, and a Production and Transport Manager.’
And it will be interesting, he added to himself, to see what choices the leaders make. Their selective ability would play a big part in his own final assessment of them.
They were very still and attentive. He knew what they were waiting for. They were in their second week and they knew he would have formed opinions of them all by now. They wanted to see how those opinions were reflected in his choice of the four men to lead the brainstorming teams.
Deliberately he kept them waiting a few minutes longer. He continued smoothly:
‘You must regard yourselves as competing companies. You will be asked to assume that you all stand an equal chance at the beginning — but the later stages will depend largely on how you tackle the problem of persuading the President or Prime Minister or dictator of the new country that you should be allowed commercial freedom. Halfway through the day I shall come to each of you and — I promise you — find some way of upsetting each plan so that you will have to readjust quickly to new circumstances, perhaps revising your whole campaign, perhaps managing with only a few swift changes … perhaps deciding to abandon the whole thing. Twenty minutes will represent two months in the life of your Company. Now … ’ He consulted a sheet of paper on his desk, although his choice of names was already made. ‘The leaders,’ he said.
A match spluttered harshly along the matchbox and Crowther lit his pipe. Another man stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette.
‘Mr Flint will lead one team,’ said Dampier. Heads turned towards Flint in rueful congratulation. Nobody was surprised that his name should have come up. ‘And … let me see … ’
The more subtle among them would by now be wondering whether the choice of leaders was as significant as it might appear. How could they be sure that Dampier wasn’t choosing at random, simply to put them on their mettle — or, even if he was naming the four most promising pupils, that he wasn’t giving them the chance of making a hideous mess at this stage and thereby demoting themselves? They couldn’t be sure.
He said: ‘Mr Hornbrook.’
Of course. Hornbrook acknowledged the nomination with a slight but confident nod. Nobody would have been more surprised than Hornbrook himself if he had not been selected.
‘Mr Ames.’
That shook them. Ames had made no great showing so far and was one of the least conspicuous members of the class. But he might surprise them. He was one of the quiet, dogged type with a primly organised mind: he might be no great personality in himself, but it was possible that he had the ability to bring out and organise all that was best in his subordinates. That was what Dampier wished to find out.
‘And … ’ He hesitated. They were all fairly sure that he was about to nominate Crowther. Crowther’s deep-browed concentration on the tamping down of smouldering tobacco in his pipe bore witness to his own conviction on this score.
Dampier said: ‘Mr Western.’
Crowther did not look up. His neighbour glanced at him but obtained no response. Crowther drove his middle finger down into the bowl of his pipe, withdrew it in a blackened state, and struck another match.
‘And now for the teams,’ said Dampier.
He proposed to give the self-effacing Ames a strong team and to see what he made of them. Hornbrook … yes, Hornbrook must have Crowther as one of his group; they would inevitably clash, and it would be interesting to see whether the outcome was fruitful or destructive.
Then there was Flint. As a time and motion study expert, he would undoubtedly have his team sorted out and getting on with the work in five minutes flat. He would probably turn in the most professional, foolproof result — sound rather than inspired. There would be no clumsy flaws in Flint’s end product; unless, that is, he was provided with an irritant to throw him off his carefully calculated course.
Dampier contemplated David Marsh. It would be rewarding to put those two together. Already they had had two somewhat acrimonious arguments in class. There was a bristling antipathy between them that had its origins outside the Course. Young Marsh spent rather too much of his time in the restaurant, the bar, and the streets between this building and the hotel, in the company of Jessica. And Dampier was most interested to observe that Andrew Flint didn’t like this. Most interested. Flint took no overt steps to do anything about the situation; but certainly he didn’t like it.
Dampier said, ‘In Mr Flint’s team, I think we should have Mr Blackwell … Mr Marsh … ’
Flint started, then glared at him, then looked alarmed. It was beginning to dawn on Flint that the lecturer knew or guessed more than he ought to do. They were all the same, in every class on every Course: they were like children who were continually taken by surprise, continually surprised to find themselves under such keen, adult observation. They thought they could hide things; but it was difficult to hide anything from Dampier.
He added three more names to Flint’s team and turned his attention to Western. It was only now that he realised, with a twinge of annoyance, that Western’s response when his name was announced had been a peculiar one. Dampier had seen his reaction without quite registering it. It might almost have slipped past him. But now he remembered that Western had shown no gratification — that there had, in fact, been a fleeting furrow of displeasure on his brow. It was as though he didn’t want the chance to prove himself. To him it was nothing more than a nuisance, in some way an interference.
Significant … but of what?
*
Andrew sat at the head of the table and tried to concentrate.
He was in no mood for playing games. He knew that this was a crucial stage in the screening process that was going on every hour of every day for these six weeks and that it demanded his full attention, but his resolves were being undermined. The planting of David Marsh on him had been deliberate. There was no shadow of a doubt about that. And there was no doubt whatsoever about the reasons.
He shuffled the papers on the table before him. It was all too easy to conjure up a picture of the fussy, gleeful little men who had concocted these posers and fake figures. They must have had some happy hours inventing the politics of their mythical African country.
Yet he had started out knowing that this whole Course was a protracted game. He had gone into it determined to play hard and to win.
Now all he could think about was Jessica. Jessica and that baby-faced young upstart. He ought to have been pleased: Marsh had been openly spending too much time with Jessica, and Marsh had not been appointed leader of a team; but instead of justifying his whole approach to the Course and providing a stimulus it was proving a distraction.
He forced himself to speak.
‘We are proposing to set up a sales organisation in Nogoland.’ And what little dimwit had hugged himself when he dreamed up that name? ‘We are faced with some opposition from the new Government, who came to power on slogans of shaking off colonial rule and building up local crafts, industries and commerce. First we have to produce a new climate of opinion. We have to make it clear that we wish to play a part in the country’s prosperity and that we have no intention of exploiting it selfishly. We want to lead up to the establishment of good trading relations and then to the construction of an assembly plant for prefabricated sections and bulk supplies shipped from the United Kingdom or France. Starting with stories fed to the local Press about the beneficial results of our
international operations … ’
Plastic buckets for Peru, petroleum chemical derivatives for industry in Africa and Asia, lighting insulation for a million electrical fitments — they were all part of the Intersyn boast, repeated over and over again in all possible media of publicity. How could the familiar, practised techniques be most effectively applied to this new situation?
He said: ‘The first thing is to get our Public Relations Officer moving. I think that’s the job for you, Marsh.’
‘Oh.’ David Marsh cleared his throat. ‘Actually, P.R. isn’t my strong subject. I’ve done most of my work on the marketing side. I think I’ll be more use to the team if I stick to that.’
‘As I understand it,’ said Andrew ominously, ‘this Course is designed to put people in difficult situations and see how they respond, so that the Company can assess the calibre of its employees. So I’m appointing you P.R. Officer. All right?’
Marsh had gone pale. He could not take a reproof. He had no business to be on this Course at all.
‘All right.’ His voice was tight and steady.
‘Good. Now, let’s spend the first quarter of an hour working out our P.R. campaign. Sales, Finance’ — he quickly nodded his three remaining choices — ‘and Production and Transport. Finance will have to come first. These papers here give details of budget allocations. I want you to let me know how much we can set aside for our preliminary campaign.’
They discussed the matter slowly and self-consciously at first but the Sales and Finance boys were soon enthusiastic. Like a reluctant group dragged into charades at a party they began to throw themselves into it. Only Marsh remained uncomfortable. He floundered. His suggestions were lame and uncreative. The project did not even get off the ground until they left the P.R. campaign, assuming that it had done its job — a risky assumption — and went on to more practical matters. Here Marsh’s contributions were sound enough, but Andrew did not accept many of them. Although he tried to be objective, he instinctively slapped Marsh down at every possible opportunity. With one part of his mind he knew that this would do the team no good and that the results of their debate would be open to criticism by Dampier; but with another part he enjoyed jabbing and stabbing at the awkward, amateurish young man.
Dampier came in at the halfway mark and studied their achievements so far. He looked once at Andrew with an expression mingling surprise and speculation, and then briskly told them that something had gone wrong. A competitor had obtained a prior concession; after a board meeting in London their budget had been cut by one third; and in the light of new developments they must institute a new campaign in half the time originally planned.
‘I leave you with it, gentlemen,’ said Dampier, and left them with it.
It ought to have been engrossing. But Andrew could not channel all his energies into this struggle. He had known about the game before he joined the Course and had looked forward to it. Then, today, the mere sound of it had been ridiculous, and now that he was plunged into it he simply could not concentrate.
Young Marsh got on his nerves. So did the sleek Hornbrook, who at this moment was probably evolving a nice, sleek, civilised programme. Last weekend in the bar he had snapped loudly at Hornbrook, who had of course been quite unruffled. Last weekend — drinking in the bar and putting on the Intersyn act instead of being with Jessica. He could have arranged to spend a couple of hours with her. She had been at the flat all weekend — she slept in the hotel only during the week, unlike the imprisoned competitors — and there had been that free period on Sunday afternoon when he could have got to her. She would have been so pleased. Or would she? He tried to remember whether Marsh had been in the hotel that afternoon or whether he had gone out for one of those supposed strolls of his.
Damn it, they didn’t have to be prisoners — or, worse still, children kept in a barred room. If he asserted himself and refused to agree to the more ridiculous rules of the Course, might that not be regarded as a sign of decisiveness? Might the Company not be waiting to see who would be the first to show that kind of courage and independence?
And quite apart from that, he wanted to get out anyway.
He looked at Marsh’s head, bowed over the table in contemplation of a distribution agency map, and wondered if Marsh had been to Jessica’s flat yet. He was sure Jessica wouldn’t have invited him so soon. Sure that she would never invite him. Sure. Sure that he was being stupid in falling prey so easily to jealousy.
‘Mr Flint. If our rivals have port facilities while we have to build a new jetty … ’
‘Mm?’
‘The port. There are only two in Nogoland, and one of them has fallen into disuse because of the silting up of the harbour entrance. That’s what we’ve been told, anyway.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Andrew tetchily. ‘Get on. What are you proposing?’
They finished the game and finished the day. Dampier took half an hour to sum up the results of their efforts, and announced that Western’s team had won, with Flint’s coming in second. Andrew’s cloud of gloom lifted slightly. He had not expected this. It must have been due entirely to the labours of his Sales and Finance nominees.
‘I have put Mr Flint’s group second,’ said Dampier, ‘in spite of the unevenness of many of their findings. I’ll discuss these in more detail tomorrow, as the subject is a most interesting one — the effectiveness of certain brilliant strokes in spite of an overall untidiness.’
With better leadership, thought Andrew, there wouldn’t have been that untidiness. He surreptitiously studied Western’s craggy, arrogant features. Here evidently was a serious rival. From now on there could be no slacking; no time for luxurious self-pity or self-doubt.
In the bar that evening there was a hubbub of eager discussion. Most of them were continuing to play the Cammanplan game, exchanging jokes and arguments.
‘When old Dampier came in and mucked up our plan with that stinker of a setback … ’
‘Harry came out with one glorious remark in the middle of it … ’
Some of them were by now on Christian name terms. Others remained suspicious and aloof, snapping out surnames with military impersonality.
‘I used to attend Monty’s conferences at Eighth Army,’ said a tall man with a crisp moustache, ‘and I know.’
‘I wanted to go to New York last autumn but unfortunately I was two executive levels too high for the conference. Silly, isn’t it?’
And a persistent echo from an earlier evening, ‘I’ve accepted Intersyn as a challenge.’
‘Harry came out with a gorgeous one … ’
Andrew realised that he was already on his third drink. He looked round the bar. There was no sign of Jessica. But at least Marsh was here, talking to someone.
Andrew went on drinking until dinner-time. The babble of argument hardly slackened during the meal. Afterwards he made his way back to the bar and took up where he had left off. It was some little time before he noticed that David Marsh was now not in the room.
He edged his way through the crush towards the door which led into the lounge.
The room beyond was equipped with leather-covered easy chairs, tables and newspaper racks. A desk in one corner was supplied with Company headed paper. A man was bent over it, writing assiduously. Two of the walls were lined with bookshelves. The Executive Course members made little use of this: it was meant more for the Technical Courses which passed through twice a year.
Jessica was seated at a table in the middle of the room, turning over the pages of a magazine. There were two other chairs at her table, empty.
Andrew stood over her. ‘All alone?’
‘Not quite,’ said a suave voice behind him.
Western and Marsh had been standing at one of the bookshelves. They came towards the table and sat down in the two chairs. Western smiled up at Andrew. He had thin lips that were too fine and colourless for his broad jaw. Andrew stood awkwardly over them, in what ought to have been a commanding position but wasn’t. He waited fo
r Jessica to acknowledge his presence. She was about to speak when Western said to David, markedly continuing a private conversation:
‘I hadn’t realised you had such a grasp of the technical processes. Not many of our Marketing chaps have that kind of background.’
‘It’s not essential. You don’t have to understand chemical reactions to be able to sell the finished product.’
‘No, but one would have thought that if that was your bent you would have made a career in the plant. Why aren’t you one of the Belby boys?’
‘There are reasons,’ said David Marsh. His right eye half closed in a slight tic, as though he had a lazy eye. ‘Reasons of state, you might say.’
Jessica looked at Andrew and looked away. She reached for her glass from the table, sipped at it, and yawned.
Andrew turned and went out of the room, back to the bar.
Later, when he looked into the lounge again, all three of them had gone. Early to bed? And to whose bed?
He tried to wrench his thoughts out of this pattern. The hell with Jessica and the hell with Marsh. Petty jealousy and petty spite weren’t going to help him on this Course. From tomorrow on he would control his imaginings. He would win. He had to win.
When he went to bed there were few men left in the bar. His mouth felt dry and sour. He drank three glasses of water, gagging on the third.
At the end of a sleepless hour he found that he must go to the lavatory.
