The Right Man for the Right Job

Guy Lucey had had a secretary of his own for only a month, and he still felt a secret pride every morning when she came into his unitized-panel office and asked, "What is the schedule for today, Mr. Lucey?"

It was true that Miss Halvorson was in her middle 40s, totally humorless, and almost totally chinless; she had been dredged, so to speak, from the bottom of the secretarial pool. But, Guy told himself, Scale 8 was the first scale at Greater United Foods where a man got a secretary of his own, and you couldn't exactly specify a Jayne Mansfield type.

This morning, however, Miss Halvorson didn't ask her usual question. Instead, she handed Guy a sealed envelope, and said, "Mr. Millikin's secretary asked me to give you this. You're to call Mr. Millikin as soon as you can to discuss it with him."

Guy set his cardboard coffee container down on the desk blotter.

" 'Personal and Confidential.' What's it all about, Miss Halvorson?"

"I have no idea, Mr. Lucey. Mr. Millikin's secretary asked ..."

"OK, OK. Thanks. I have some letters and reports, but they better wait until I take care of this. I'll holler when I'm ready."

"Yes, Mr. Lucey."

When she had gone, Guy ripped open the envelope. Mr. Millikin, Greater United's Vice-President in Charge of Personnel, didn't send many "Personal and Confidential" notes, Guy thought. And he particularly didn't send them to junior executives in the Market Research Department.

Guy unfolded the single sheet of paper:

Personal and Confidential

From: S. V. Millikin, Vice-President, Personnel

To: Guy Lucey, Assistant Statistician, Market Research Department, National Sales Division, General Office.

Dear Mr. Lucey:

An opportunity has arisen within the company which may interest you. Will you please call me soon so that we can set a time to discuss it.

This will probably involve your taking a series of aptitude tests; please arrange your schedule so that the next three or four days are as clear as possible.

SVM

Guy set the memo down on his desk, sipped his lukewarm coffee, and pondered. "... opportunity ..."? Hell's bells, I just got a raise out of the adding machine bullpen to Scale 8. I hope they're not going to send me back out there. Guy put the coffee container carefully into his wastebasket so as not to splash out the dregs, picked up his "inside" telephone, and dialed "O."

"Mr. Millikin, please."

The appointment was for after lunch, so Guy ate alone. He didn't want to have even one drink before the meeting, and he didn't want to explain his abstinence to the fellows he usually ate with.

At two minutes to two, Guy got off the elevator at the 17th-floor "mahogany row," and announced himself to the receptionist.

Mr. Millikin had a folder on his desk, Guy's own personal file. He looked up and smiled at Guy, but did not rise or offer to shake hands.

"Afternoon, Lucey. Sit down. I appreciate your getting in touch with me so promptly. You're probably wondering what this is all about."

"Yes sir, I am."

"Well, Lucey, I can't tell it all to you, but I'll try to hit the high spots. First, though, let's take a look at" — Millikin looked down at the folder — "where you've been, and where you think you're going, right?"

"Yes sir, fine."

"Let's see. You're 29. Good school. Bus Ad major. Pretty fair grades. Married." Millikin looked up sharply. "Happily married, Lucey?"

"Yes sir, I guess I am."

"No spats, no arguments?"

"Well ..."

"Never mind, it's not really important. Children?"

"Two lovely little girls, sir. Six and four."

"Fine, fine. Now then, you went from college to American Chemicals, in accounting. And two years later you joined us." He looked up again. "How do you feel about that decision now?"

"Well, fine. I think I have a good future here, sir."

"Yes. I've been talking with Tinkham, your immediate superior. He tells me that since your elevation to Scale 8 you've been applying yourself well — long hours, taking work home with you, and so on. Right?"

"I'm trying to do the best I can, Mr. Millikin. (continued on page 80)Right Man(continued from page 63) Yes. I have been working hard, sir."

"Good. That was our impression."

Millikin was silent for perhaps five seconds. He regarded Guy intently. Then he flipped the file shut, leaned back in his chair, and smiled warmly.

"Lucey, I think you have a good future here, too. I've been going over your aptitude tests — the ones you took when you joined the company, and before you went up to Scale 8. They indicate a good, healthy amount of company orientation and other-directedness."

Guy looked puzzled.

"I'll put that in plainer language, Lucey. You're a good company man. Now, about these tests that you'll be taking. We have about 30,000 employees, including plant personnel all over the country. Here in the General Office there are over 2000 men, ranging from the Chairman of the Board down to the newest trainee. My job is to try to ballance these 2000 men — in other words, to find the right men for the right jobs."

Millikin paused to light a cigarette, and Guy hastened to light one for himself.

Millikin continued. "And that's where these psychological tests come in, Lucey. They take out the guesswork. My judgment, just from talking with a man, certainly can't be 100 percent accurate. After all," and Millikin smiled warmly again, "... you can't tell a book from its cover, can you?"

"No sir, I guess not."

"What's your personal opinion about these tests, Lucey? Got any resistance to them?"

"Well, frankly sir, I wonder just ... what I mean is, I read The Organization Man, and I ..."

"Fine, fine, most interesting book. I'd say it might be a bit radical, personnel-wise, but interesting."

"Yes sir. I mean, I really think if the tests are valid, why I'm all for them. I don't mind them at all."

"Good. Because you have three days ahead that'll be full of tests."

Mr. Millikin got up, strolled to his window and gazed out.

"Now then, you're probably wondering why, so close on the heels of your last advancement in duties and pay, we are considering you for something else. As I said, I can't be completely explicit at this point, but I can tell you that this will be a special assignment. We need one man — just one, for the job."

He turned, looked at Guy.

"I'll be administering the tests personally" — Guy's eyebrows went up; usually Mr. Millikin assigned this work to one of his many assistants — "due to the extreme importance of this particular project. Do you have any questions?"

"Sir, I do, but I guess they'll wait. Until you can give me some more details, that is."

"Right. Well, then, Lucey, that's all for today. You've passed your first hurdle without even knowing it. This interview. I have my own personal criteria, and your answers, your attitude, your bearing — all these tell me, 'This might be the man.' Good day, Lucey. Please be in my conference room tomorrow morning at 10. We'll start the tests then."

• • •

On the commuting train that night, Guy sat at his regular table in the club car with three fellow Greater United men, Reg Paige, Steve Herman and Joe Collyer. They worked in the same building, although in different departments, they rode the train together, and they lived in the same suburban development in New Jersey.

Guy related what had happened during the day.

"And you have no idea what kind of job Millikin has in mind?"

"Nope."

"But those goddamn tests, Guy," Steve Herman said. "In Public Relations we don't have to take them, and if we did I think I'd quit. I think they stink."

Guy looked at Steve, who was a New Frontier Democrat and was considered the radical of their little group.

"Steve, I don't like 'em either. But like old Millikin says, he has to find the right man for the right job. And the tests are guideposts, so to speak."

"Guideposts, schmideposts."

"Guy's right, Steve," said Reg Paige. "They're scientifically valid."

"And what the hell," said Joe Collyer. "You can't fight city hall."

That night, it took Guy a long time to get to sleep. There was something very strange about this, he thought. He knew that he worked hard and well; he also knew that he was not one of those industrial boy wonders. Finally, he slept, to dream from time to time of blank test forms floating beyond his reach — just far enough so that he could not read the questions. And then they were gone.

• • •

The next day the tests began. They were much like the many others he had taken from the time he began working for Greater United Foods. Multiple-choice questions, running mostly to things such as:

"If you could be successful in one of the following vocations, which would you choose? (a) museum curator, (b) farmer, (c) salesman, (d) dancing teacher."

Or, "Which of the following do you prefer? (a) symphony music, (b) jazz music, (c) news broadcasts."

The tests filled the first and second days completely, draining Guy of energy and patience. Millikin was secretive, but pleasant, like a dentist in the reception room. And the tests went on.

When Guy got up the third, last day, he was very tired.

At the breakfast table, his wife said, "Honey, can you take a day off after this is over? Relax a little bit?"

"Don't know." Guy sipped his coffee, bit at a loose fragment of fingernail. "Frankly, this is driving me nuts. Not knowing, I mean. Maybe today ..."

"Daddy," the six-year-old said, and Guy smiled at her. "I like kindergarten. Can I have one of my new friends over for dinner?"

"Sure, honey."

"Can I have two over?"

"You talk to your mommy about that."

"I want to go to kindergarten, too," the four-year-old said.

"Guy, I do hope you can take some time and rest. You haven't been playing with the girls, reading to them. And they miss it."

Guy closed his eyes and tightened his lips. "Gwen, I said that I'd try. And I will, dear."

As Guy left the house, he hugged each of his pretty daughters and kissed his wife. Then he kissed her again, hard. "I love you, Gwen. The strain'll be over soon. Wish me luck."

"Luck, Guy."

And he went out to the car, and on to the station, and in to New York.

• • •

Guy finished the last test shortly before lunch.

"Get a fast sandwich and be back here in the conference room by one," Mr. Millikin said, as he took the test papers. "Then we'll have a final personal interview."

When Guy returned, there were three other men waiting with Mr. Millikin.

"Mr. Lucey, this is Mr. Simpson, our Marketing V.P., and Mr. McQuinn, Executive Vice-President. And this is Dr. Burgundy, an industrial psychologist and consultant to Greater United."

Guy shook hands all around. He had never met any of the men before, although he had seen Mr. McQuinn and Mr. Simpson from time to time around the building. The other man, Dr. Burgundy, was a complete stranger. He was a large man, Guy noticed, with a curiously melancholy face.

"Now then, Lucey, we have a few questions to ask you," Mr. Millikin said. "Please relax, talk freely, we're all on the same payroll here ..." Everyone chuckled, except Dr. Burgundy.

"First," said Mr. McQuinn, "You consider yourself a pretty hard worker, (continued on page 98)Right Man(continued from page 80) generally, don't you, Lucey? Take work home ..."

It was true. Almost every evening Guy took home an attaché case full of figures, trends, projections.

"I guess you could call me ambitious, Mr. McQuinn. I want to get ahead, to provide well for my family. And since I'm no genius, the best way to do it is to work hard, do my best. But I don't mind, I enjoy the work."

The four men nodded, exchanged glances. Dr. Burgundy made a note on a pocket pad, and said, "Mr. Lucey, what are your ambitions here at Greater United? Do you want to be president of the company? Or what?"

Guy hesitated. "Well, I don't know. I know I'm not really brilliant, so I guess I'd never be president. Maybe Manager of Market Research. I just haven't thought about it very much."

Dr. Burgundy turned to the others. "What we thought. Drive factor almost exactly median."

Mr. Simpson spoke. "Would you consider yourself loyal to Greater United?"

"Why, yes sir. I'm loyal. I think it's a fine company."

Again the men exchanged glances and nodded.

Mr. Millikin said to Dr. Burgundy, "What do you think, Carl?"

"Just one more question." Dr. Burgundy regarded Guy with a peculiar intentness. "Is there any record in your family of mental illness?" He spoke very slowly, very precisely. "On either your mother's or your father's side, has anyone ever been in a mental institution, or been hospitalized for depression or melancholia?"

Guy felt a chill of uneasiness. "Mental illness?" No one moved or spoke. "No sir. All my folks were — just normal. Normal small-town folks, that's all."

"I see," said Dr. Burgundy, "I see."

"What do you think, Carl?" said Mr. Millikin.

Dr. Burgundy rose. "I think Mr. Lucey is our man. The tests indicate it, and as far as I'm concerned, our little talk here wraps it up."

The others stood.

Dr. Burgundy strode across the room. With astonishing swiftness, he drew a small blackjack from his coat pocket and in a continuous motion before Guy could move he swung it in an expert short sideward arc, to a point on Guy's head just above the left ear. Guy felt a hard crack of pain, the room swung crazily around him, and then blackness.

When Guy awoke, he was lying on the conference-room couch, and his first awareness, after swimming out of the throbbing headache, was of quiet conversation. He opened his eyes, and saw Mr. Millikin, Mr. Simpson, Mr. McQuinn and Dr. Burgundy standing by the window.

He tried to move, but he seemed to be paralyzed. Only his head would respond, and it was with great effort that he could raise it an inch or so from the pillow on which it rested.

Guy tried to speak. It was a long, sighing moan.

The men turned from the window.

"He's awake," said Mr. Millikin.

"Can you hear us, Lucey?" asked Dr. Burgundy. "Can you speak?"

"Yes," Guy whispered.

"You've been given an injection," said Dr. Burgundy. "A simple curare derivative. You're paralyzed, partially, but if you try you can talk a little."

The men sat down. Mr. McQuinn looked at his watch. "Let's get on with it. I have a meeting with the West Coast Zone Manager at 3:30."

Mr. Millikin cleared his throat. "Lucey, as you may have gathered, you have been chosen for this rather — ah — special assignment."

He turned to Mr. McQuinn. "Jimmy, want to explain this from the point of view of the big picture?"

McQuinn was tamping tobacco into a pipe. "Certainly, Sam." He struck a match. "The easiest way to say it, Lucey," puff, puff, "... is that from time to time ..." puff, puff, puff, "... it becomes necessary that ..." he shook out the match deliberately, "... a man die for Greater United Foods." He sucked again on his pipe. "Die for Greater United Foods," he repeated. "And you're the man, it turns out."

Guy felt his stomach slip and slide inside him. He strained to speak. "What ... ?"

"Oh, it's nothing personal, Lucey. And we don't like to do it, for heaven's sake."

"Of course not, Guy," interrupted Simpson, with the look of an earnest fifth-grade teacher on his face. "But with management comes responsibility, you know. And we wouldn't be doing our jobs if we shirked ours."

"That's right," said McQuinn. "That's the whole point, you see. You have been chosen to die — as it happens, your death will appear to be a suicide — in order that others might live. Live more successfully and happily for Greater United, to be specific."

Guy gasped again. "... why?"

"Good question, Lucey," said Millikin briskly. "From time to time, as you must know, it's necessary for management to motivate our men in various ways. Sales contests, production quotas, you're familiar with all that. We try to keep you fellas pushing good and hard. But our studies now show that too many of you — especially you youngsters — are working too hard. Straining at the leash a little, carrying the worries of the world on your shoulders, so to speak."

"And it wouldn't do," said McQuinn, "for us to ask our men not to push, would it? That just wouldn't be good management. Carl? You got anything to add?"

Dr. Burgundy nodded. "There is also the future to consider, Lucey. The company men of your age and status grouping are eventually going to be running things around here from the managerial level on up. It is important that they reach those positions mentally and physically intact — without ulcers, without symptoms of chronic anxiety — in short, with healthy, well-balanced egos."

"Right," said Millikin. "So when it becomes necessary, we simply make it appear that overwork has got in its licks. Let's see — the last two were simulated heart attacks, weren't they, Jim?" McQuinn nodded, puffing. "But once a year or so, a suicide really makes the men stop and think, slows them down. Actually increases productivity, strangely enough," he chuckled.

"... but why me ... ?" Guy whispered.

"The tests, Lucey. They indicated that you'd never be a really top dog around here. You'd be just middle or upper-middle management. Lots of young sprouts like you around, you just happened to be the most average of all."

Simpson smiled his warm salesman's smile. "One thing, Guy, don't feel hurt about this. It's happened before and it'll happen again. We have to keep our men working hard — but not too hard. It's part of the free enterprise system, really part of the American Way."

Millikin said, "And your major medical, group insurance, pension fund — everything's in order. Your family'll be fine."

McQuinn cleared his throat, looked at his watch. "Gentlemen, my meeting ..."

They stood, and Millikin said, "Thanks, Lucey. I can't say 'luck,' I guess, but 'chin up,' fella, anyway."

And except for Dr. Burgundy they were gone, closing the door softly behind them.

Guy thrashed in panic. But his arms and legs only quivered.

"All traces of the injection will be gone in a few minutes," said Dr. Burgundy, "so we might as well get it over with."

He raised one of the large windows, and Guy felt the outside heat billow in through the cool air-conditioned room.

Then Dr. Burgundy lifted Guy easily, limp in his arms, walked to the window, and threw him out.

As Guy went out the window, and down, he caught a glimpse of the deserted inside courtyard 17 floors below, saw fractionally two tiny garbage cans against the building wall, closed his eyes, felt the breathtaking rush of air. And then he crashed onto the cement.

• • •

That evening, Herman, Paige and Collyer sat in silence in the club car, portraits of stunned disbelief. From time to time, one would shake his head, sip from a glass of beer.

Finally, Paige spoke. "I don't understand it. I just don't."

"Guy was such a level-headed fellow," said Collyer.

Herman looked at the other two. "But don't forget. He was pushing himself."

"That's right. He'd just made Scale 8 ..."

"... and was pressing damn hard for something even better."

Paige drained the beer from his glass and set it down hard.

"The hell with it. All the money in the world isn't worth that."

"We should take it easier," said Collyer. "We should all take it a little easier."