awesome mystery to most of the employees of Javis-Bircham, including Blank’s superiors: vice presidents, the president, the board of directors. Blank intended to keep the activities of the Computer Room an enigma. Not only did it insure his importance to the firm, but it made his task much easier when the annual “budget day” rolled around and he requested consistently rising amounts for his department’s operating expenses.
Blank went immediately to the stainless steel table where the four young men were deep in whispered conversation. This was his Task Force X-1, the best technicians of the morning shift. Blank had set them a problem that was still “Top Secret” within this room.
From his boredom, in his desire to extend the importance of the Circulation Department and increase his personal power and influence, Blank had decided he should have the responsibility of deciding for each magazine the proportion between editorial pages and advertising pages. Years ago this ratio was dictated in a rough fashion by the limitations of printing presses, which could produce a magazine only in multiples of eight or 16 pages.
But improvements in printing techniques now permitted production of magazines of any number of pages—15, 47, 76, 103, 241: whatever might be desired, with a varied mix of paper quality. Magazine editors constantly fought for more editorial pages, arguing (sometimes correctly, sometimes not) that sheer quantity attracted readers.
But there was obviously a limit to this: paper cost money, and so did press time. Editors were continually wrangling with the Production Department about the thickness of their magazines. Daniel Blank saw a juicy opportunity to step into the fray and supersede both sides by suggesting AMROK II be given the assignment of determining the most profitable proportion between editorial and advertising pages.
He would, he knew, face strong and vociferous opposition. Editors would claim an infringement of their creative responsibilities; production men would see a curtailment of their power. But if Blank could present a feasible program, he was certain he could win over the shrewd men who floated through the paneled suites on the 31st floor. Then he—and AMROK II, of course—would determine the extent of the editorial content of each magazine. It seemed to him but a short step from that to allowing AMROK II to dictate the most profitable subject matter of the editorial content. It was possible.
But all that was in the future. Right now Task Force X-1 was discussing the programming that would be necessary before the computer could make wise decisions on the most profitable ratio between editorial and advertising pages in every issue of every Javis-Bircham magazine. Blank listened closely to their whispered conversation, turning his eyes from speaker to speaker, and wondering if it was true, as she had said, that she occasionally rouged her nipples.
He waited, with conscious control, until 3:00 p.m. before calling. The lisping houseman asked him to hang on a moment, then came back on the phone to tell him, “Mith Montfort requeth you call again in a half hour.” Puzzled, Blank hung up, paced his office for precisely 30 minutes, ate a chilled pear from his small refrigerator, and called again. This time he was put through to her.
“Hello,” he said. “How are you?” (Should he call her “Celia” or “Miss Montfort”?)
“Well. And you?”
“Fine. You said I could call.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been out of town?”
“Out of the country. To Samarra.”
“Oh?” he said, hoping she might think him clever, “you had an appointment?”
“Something like that.”
“Where exactly is Samarra?”
“Iraq. I was there for only a day. Actually I went over to see my parents. They’re currently in Marrakech.”
“How are they?” he asked politely.
“The same,” she said in her toneless voice. “They haven’t changed in thirty years. Ever since…” Her voice
Blank went immediately to the stainless steel table where the four young men were deep in whispered conversation. This was his Task Force X-1, the best technicians of the morning shift. Blank had set them a problem that was still “Top Secret” within this room.
From his boredom, in his desire to extend the importance of the Circulation Department and increase his personal power and influence, Blank had decided he should have the responsibility of deciding for each magazine the proportion between editorial pages and advertising pages. Years ago this ratio was dictated in a rough fashion by the limitations of printing presses, which could produce a magazine only in multiples of eight or 16 pages.
But improvements in printing techniques now permitted production of magazines of any number of pages—15, 47, 76, 103, 241: whatever might be desired, with a varied mix of paper quality. Magazine editors constantly fought for more editorial pages, arguing (sometimes correctly, sometimes not) that sheer quantity attracted readers.
But there was obviously a limit to this: paper cost money, and so did press time. Editors were continually wrangling with the Production Department about the thickness of their magazines. Daniel Blank saw a juicy opportunity to step into the fray and supersede both sides by suggesting AMROK II be given the assignment of determining the most profitable proportion between editorial and advertising pages.
He would, he knew, face strong and vociferous opposition. Editors would claim an infringement of their creative responsibilities; production men would see a curtailment of their power. But if Blank could present a feasible program, he was certain he could win over the shrewd men who floated through the paneled suites on the 31st floor. Then he—and AMROK II, of course—would determine the extent of the editorial content of each magazine. It seemed to him but a short step from that to allowing AMROK II to dictate the most profitable subject matter of the editorial content. It was possible.
But all that was in the future. Right now Task Force X-1 was discussing the programming that would be necessary before the computer could make wise decisions on the most profitable ratio between editorial and advertising pages in every issue of every Javis-Bircham magazine. Blank listened closely to their whispered conversation, turning his eyes from speaker to speaker, and wondering if it was true, as she had said, that she occasionally rouged her nipples.
He waited, with conscious control, until 3:00 p.m. before calling. The lisping houseman asked him to hang on a moment, then came back on the phone to tell him, “Mith Montfort requeth you call again in a half hour.” Puzzled, Blank hung up, paced his office for precisely 30 minutes, ate a chilled pear from his small refrigerator, and called again. This time he was put through to her.
“Hello,” he said. “How are you?” (Should he call her “Celia” or “Miss Montfort”?)
“Well. And you?”
“Fine. You said I could call.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been out of town?”
“Out of the country. To Samarra.”
“Oh?” he said, hoping she might think him clever, “you had an appointment?”
“Something like that.”
“Where exactly is Samarra?”
“Iraq. I was there for only a day. Actually I went over to see my parents. They’re currently in Marrakech.”
“How are they?” he asked politely.
“The same,” she said in her toneless voice. “They haven’t changed in thirty years. Ever since…” Her voice
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