There is no enemy so hard to fight as a dull gray fog. It's not
solid enough to beat, too indefinite to kill, and too omnipresent
to escape.
[Transcribers Note: This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact and
Science Fiction February 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Illustration]
Dr. William Baker was fifty and didn't mind it a bit. Fifty was a
tremendously satisfying age. With that exact number of years behind him
a man had stature that could be had in no other way. Younger men, who
achieve vast things at, say, thirty-five, are always spoken of with
their age as a factor. And no matter what the intent of the connection,
when a man's accomplishments are linked to the number of years since he
was born there is always a sense of apologia about it.
But when a man is fifty his age is no longer mentioned. His name stands
alone on whatever foundation his achievements have provided. He has
stature without apology, if the years have been profitably spent.
William Baker considered his years had been very profitably spent. He
had achieved the Ph. D. and the D. Sc. degrees in the widely separated
fields of electronics and chemistry. He had been responsible for some of
the most important radar developments of the World War II period. And
now he held a post that was the crowning achievement of those years of
study and effort.
On this day of his fiftieth birthday he walked briskly along the
corridor of the Bureau building. He paused only when he came to the
glass door which was lettered in gold: National Bureau of Scientific
Development, Dr. William Baker, Director. He was unable to regard that
door without a sense of pride. But he was convinced the pride was
thoroughly justifiable.
He turned the knob and stepped into the office. Then his brisk stride
came to a pause. He closed the door slowly and frowned. The room was
empty. Neither his receptionist nor his secretary, who should have been
visible in the adjoining room, were at their posts. Through the other
open door, at his left, he could see that his administrative assistant,
Dr. James Pehrson, was not at his desk.
He had always expected his staff to be punctual. In annoyance that took
some of the glint off this day, he twisted the knob of his own office
door and strode in.
He stopped just inside the room, and a warm wave of affection welled up
within him. All nine members of his immediate staff were gathered around
the table in the center of his office. On the table was a cake with pink
frosting. A single golden candle burned brightly in the middle of the
inscription: Happy Birthday, Chief.
The staff broke into a frighteningly off-key rendition of "Happy
Birthday to You." William Baker smiled fondly, catching the eye of each
of them as they badgered the song to its conclusion.
Afterward, he stood for a moment, aware of the moisture in his own eyes,
then said quietly, "Thank you. Thank you very much, Family. This is most
unexpected. None of you will ever know how much I appreciate your
thoughtfulness."
"Don't go away," said Doris Quist, his blond and efficient secretary.
"There's more. This is from all of us."
He opened the package she offered him. A genuine leather brief case. Of
course, the Government didn't approve of gifts like this. If he observed
the rules strictly, he ought to decline the gift, but he just couldn't
do that. The faces of Doris and the others were glowing as he held up
the magnificent brief case. This was the first time such a thing had
occurred in his office, and a man hit fifty only once.
"Thanks so much for remembering," Baker said. "Things like this and
people like you make it all worth while."
When they were all gone he sat down at his desk to take up the day's
routine. He felt a little twinge of guilt at the great satisfaction that
filled him. But he couldn't help it. A fine family, an excellent
professional position--a position of prominence and authority in the
field that interested him most--what more could a man want?
His meditation was interrupted by the buzzing of the interphone. Pehrson
was on the other end. "Just reminding you, Chief," the assistant said.
"Dr. Fenwick will be in at nine-thirty regarding the request for the
Clearwater grant. Would you like to review the file before he arrives?"
"Yes, please," said Baker. "Bring everything in. There's been no change,
no new information, I suppose?"
"I'm afraid not. The Index is hopelessly low. In view of that fact there
can be no answer but a negative one. I'm sorry."
"It's all right. I can make Fenwick understand, I'm sure. It may take a
little time, and he may erupt a bit, but it'll work out."
Baker cut off and waited while Pehrson came in silently and laid the
file folders of the offending case on the desk. Pehrson was the epitome
of owl-eyed efficiency, but now he showed sympathy behind his great
horn-rimmed spectacles as he considered Baker's plight. "I wish we could
find some way to make the Clearwater research grant," he said. "With
just a couple of good Ph. D.'s who had published a few things, the Index
would be high enough--"
"It doesn't matter. Fenwick is capable of handling his own troubles."
Pehrson was a good man, but this kind of solicitousness Baker found
annoying.
"I'll send him in as soon as he comes," Pehrson said as he closed the
door behind him.
* * * * *
Baker sighed as he glanced at the folder labeled, Clearwater College.
Jerkwater is what it should be, he thought. He almost wished he had let
Pehrson handle Fenwick. But one couldn't neglect old friends, even
though there was nothing that could be done for shortsighted ones.
Baker's memories shifted. He and Fenwick had gone to school together.
Fenwick had always been one to get off into weird wide alleys, mostly
dead ended. Now he was involved in what was probably the most dead ended
of all. For the last three years he had been president of little
Jerkwater--Clearwater College, and he seemed to have some hope that NBSD
could help him out of the hole.
That was a mistake many people made. Baker sometimes felt that half his
time was spent in explaining that NBSD was not in the business of
helping people and institutions out of holes. It was in the business of
buying for the United States Government the best scientific research
available in the world.
Fenwick wanted help that would put Clearwater College on its feet
through a research contract in solid state physics. Fenwick, thought
Baker, was dreaming. But that was Fenwick.
The President of Clearwater College entered the outer office promptly at
nine-thirty. Pehrson greeted him, and Doris showed him into Baker's
office.
Dr. John Fenwick didn't look like a college president, and Baker,
unknowingly, held this vaguely against him, too. He looked more like a
prosperous small business man and gave the impression of having just
finished a brisk workout on the handball court, and a cold shower. He
was ruddy and robust and ill-equipped with academic dignity.
Baker pumped his hand as if genuinely glad to see him. "It's good to see
you again, John. Come on over and sit down."
"I'll bet you hoped I'd break a leg on the way here," said Fenwick. He
took a chair by the desk and glanced at the file folder, reading the
title, Clearwater College. "And you've been hoping my application would
get lost, and the whole thing would just disappear."
"Now, look, John--" Baker took his own seat behind the desk. Fenwick had
always had a devilish knack for making him feel uncomfortable.
"It's all right," said Fenwick, waving away Baker's protests with a
vigorous flap of his hand. "I know Clearwater isn't MIT or Cal Tech, but
we've got a real hot physics department, and you're going to see some
sparks flying out of there if you'll give us half a chance in the
finance department. What's the good word, anyway? Do we get the research
grant?"
Baker took a deep breath and settled his arms on the desk in front of
him, leaning on them for support. He wished Fenwick wasn't so abrupt
about things.
"John," Baker said slowly. "The head of your physics department doesn't
even have a Ph. D. degree."
Fenwick brightened. "He's working on that, though! I told you that in
answer to the question in the application. Bill, I wish you'd come down
and see that boy. The things he can do with crystals would absolutely
knock your hat off. He can stack them just like a kid stacking building
blocks--crystals that nobody else has ever been able to manipulate so
far. And the electrical characteristics of some of them--you wouldn't
believe the transistors he's been able to build!"
"John," said Baker patiently. "The head of the physics department in any
institution receiving a grant must have a Ph. D. degree. That is one
absolutely minimum requirement."
"You mean we've got to wait until George finishes his work for his
degree before we get the grant? That puts us in kind of a predicament
because the work that we hoped to have George do under the grant would
contribute towards his degree. Can't you put it through on the basis
that he'll have his degree just as soon as the present series of
experiments is completed?"
Baker wiped his forehead and looked down at his hands on the desk. "I
said this is _one_ minimum requirement. There are others, John."
"Oh, what else are we lacking?" Fenwick looked crestfallen for the first
time.
"I may as well be blunt," said Baker. "There is no conceivable way in
which Clearwater College can be issued a research grant for
_anything_--and especially not for basic research in any field of
physical science."
* * * * *
Fenwick just stared at him for a minute as if he couldn't believe what
he had heard, although it was the thing he had expected to hear since
the moment he sat down.
He seemed deflated when he finally spoke. "I don't think it was the
intent of the Congressional Act that made these funds available," he
said, "that only the big, plush outfits should get all the gravy. There
are plenty of smaller schools just like Clearwater who have first rate
talent in their science departments. It isn't fair to freeze us out
completely--and I don't think it's completely legal, either."
"Clearwater is not being frozen out. Size has nothing to do with the
question of whether an institution receives a grant from NBSD or not."
"When did you last give a grant to a college like Clearwater?"
"I am afraid we have never given a grant to a college--like Clearwater,"
said Baker carefully.
Fenwick's face began to grow more ruddy. "Then will you tell me just
what is the matter with Clearwater, that we can't get any Government
research contract when every other Tom, Dick, and Harry outfit in the
country can?"
"I didn't state my case in exactly those terms, John, but I'll be glad
to explain the basis on which we judge the qualifications of an
institution to receive a grant from us."
Baker had never done this before for any unsuccessful applicant. In
fact, it was the policy of the Bureau to keep the mysteries of the Index
very carefully concealed from the public. But Baker wanted Fenwick to
know what had hung him. It was the one more or less merciful thing he
could do to show Fenwick what was wrong, and might be sufficient to
shake him loose from his dismal association with Clearwater.
Baker opened the file folder and Fenwick saw now that it was
considerably fuller than he had first supposed. Baker turned the pages,
which were fastened to the cover by slide fasteners. Chart after chart,
with jagged lines and multicolored areas, flipped by under Baker's
fingers. Then Baker opened the accordian folds of a four-foot long chart
and spread it on the desk top.
"This is the Index," he said, "a composite of all the individual charts
which you saw ahead of it. This Index shows in graphical form the
relationship between the basic requirements for obtaining a research
grant and the actual qualifications of the applicant. This line marks
the minimum requirement in each area."
Baker's finger pointed to a thin, black line that crossed the sheet.
Fenwick observed that most of the colored areas and bars on the chart
were well inside the area on Baker's side of the line. He guessed that
the significance of the chart lay in this fact.
"I take it that Clearwater College is in pretty sad shape, chartwise,"
said Fenwick.
"Very," said Baker.
"Can you tell me how these charts are compiled?"
Baker turned back to the sheaf of individual charts. "Each item of data,
which is considered significant in evaluating an applicant, is plotted
individually against standards which have been derived from an
examination of all possible sources of information."
"Such as?"
"For example, the student burden per faculty Ph. D. That is shown on
this chart here."
"The what? Say that again," said Fenwick in bewilderment.
"The number of students enrolled, plotted against the number of
doctorate degrees held by the faculty."
"Oh."
"As you see, Clearwater's index for this factor is dismally low."
"We're getting a new music director next month. She expects to get her
doctorate next summer."
"I'm afraid that doesn't help us now. Besides, it would have to be in a
field pertinent to your application to have much weight."
"George--"
"Doesn't help you at all for the present. You would require a minimum of
two in the physics department alone. These two would have to be of
absolutely top quality with a prolific publication record. That would
bring this factor to a bare minimum."
"You take the number of Ph. D.'s and multiply them by the number of
papers published and the years of experience and divide by the number of
students enrolled. Is that the idea?"
"Roughly," said Baker. "We have certain constants which we also inject.
In addition, we give weight to other factors such as patents applied for
and granted. Periods of consultation by private industry, and so on.
Each of these factors is plotted separately, then combined into the
overall Index."
Baker turned the pages slowly, showing Fenwick a bleak record of black
boundary lines cutting through nearly virginal territory on the charts.
Clearwater's evaluation was reflected in a small spot of color near the
bottom edge.
* * * * *
Fenwick stared at the record without expression for a long time. "What
else do you chart?" he said finally.
"The next thing we evaluate is the performance of students graduated
during the past twenty-five years."
"Clearwater is only ten years old," said Fenwick.
"True," said Baker, "and that is why, I believe, we have obtained such
an anomalous showing in the chart of this factor."
Fenwick observed that the colored area had made a considerable invasion
on his side of the boundary on this chart. "Why anomalous? It looks like
we make a pretty good showing here."
"On the face of it, this is true," Baker admitted. "The ten-year record
of the graduates of Clearwater is exceptional. But the past decade has
been unusual in the scope of opportunities, you must admit."
"Your standard level must take this into account."
"It does. But somehow, I am sure there is a factor we haven't recognized
here."
"There might be," said Fenwick. "There might be, at that."
"Another factor which contributes to the Index," said Baker, "is the
cultural impact of the institution upon the community. We measure that
in terms of the number and quality of cultural activities brought into
the community by the university or college. We include concerts,
lectures, terpsichorean activities, Broadway plays, and so on."
"Terpsichorean activities. I like that," said Fenwick.
"Primarily ballet," said Baker.
"Sure."
"Clearwater's record here is very low. It fact, there isn't any."
"This helps us get turned down for a research grant in physics?"
"It's a factor in the measurement of the overall status."
"Look," said Fenwick, "the citizens of Clearwater are so infernally busy
with their own shindigs that they wouldn't know what to do if we brought
a long-hair performance into town. If it isn't square-dancing in the
Grange Hall, it's a pageant in the Masonic Temple. The married kids
would probably like to see a Broadway play, all right, but they're so
darned busy rehearsing their own in the basement of the Methodist Church
that I doubt they could find time to come. Besides that, there's the
community choir every Thursday, and the high school music department has
a recital nearly every month. People would drop dead if they had any
more to go to in Clearwater. I'd say our culture is doing pretty good."
"Folk activities are always admirable," said Baker, "but improvement of
the cultural level in any community depends on the injection of outside
influences, and this is one of the functions of the university.
Clearwater College has not performed its obligation to the community in
this respect."
Fenwick appeared to be growing increasingly ruddy. Baker thought he saw
moisture appearing on Fenwick's forehead.
"I know this is difficult to face," said Baker sympathetically, "but I
wanted you to understand, once and for all, just how Clearwater College
appears to the completely objective eye."
Fenwick continued to stare at him without comment. Then he said flatly,
"Let's see some more charts, Bill."
"Museum activities. This is an important function of a college level
institution. Clearwater has no museum."
"We can't afford one, in the first place. In the second place, I think
you've overlooked what we do have."
"There _is_ a Clearwater museum?" Baker asked in surprise.
"Two or three hundred of them, I guess. Every kid in the county has his
own collection of arrowheads, birds' eggs, rocks, and stuffed animals."
"I'm not joking, John," said Baker bleakly. "The museum aspect of the
college is extremely important."
"What else?" said Fenwick.
"I won't go into everything we evaluate. But you should be aware of
several other factors pertaining to the faculty, which are evaluated. We
establish an index of heredity for each faculty member. This is
primarily an index of ancestral achievement."
Fenwick's color deepened. Baker thought it seemed to verge on the
purple. "Should I open the window for a moment?" Baker asked.
Fenwick shook his head, his throat working as if unable to speak. Then
he finally managed to say, "Apart from the sheer idiocy of it, how did
you obtain any information in this area?"
Baker ignored the comment, but answered the question. "You filled out
forms. Each faculty member filled out forms."
"Yeah, that's right. I remember. Acres of forms. None of us minded if it
was to help get the research grant. We supposed it was the usual
Government razzmatazz to keep some GS-9 clerk busy."
"Our forms are hardly designed to keep people busy. They are designed to
give us needed information about applicant institutions."
"And so you plot everybody's heredity."
"As well as possible. You understand, of course, that the data are
necessarily limited."
"Sure. How do our grandpas stack up on the charts?"
"Not very well. Among Clearwater's total faculty of thirty-eight there
were no national political figures through three generations back. There
was one mayor, a couple of town councilmen, and a state senator or two.
That is about all."
"Our people weren't very politically minded."
"This is a measure of social consciousness and contemporary evaluation."