The Great Gray Plague

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Dave Lovelace, Mary Meehan and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  THE GREAT GRAY PLAGUE

  BY RAYMOND F. JONES

  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 andScience Fiction February 1962. Extensive research did not uncover anyevidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

  Dr. William Baker was fifty and didn't mind it a bit. Fifty was atremendously satisfying age. With that exact number of years behind hima man had stature that could be had in no other way. Younger men, whoachieve vast things at, say, thirty-five, are always spoken of withtheir 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 hewas born there is always a sense of apologia about it.

  But when a man is fifty his age is no longer mentioned. His name standsalone on whatever foundation his achievements have provided. He hasstature without apology, if the years have been profitably spent.

  William Baker considered his years had been very profitably spent. Hehad achieved the Ph. D. and the D. Sc. degrees in the widely separatedfields of electronics and chemistry. He had been responsible for some ofthe most important radar developments of the World War II period. Andnow he held a post that was the crowning achievement of those years ofstudy and effort.

  On this day of his fiftieth birthday he walked briskly along thecorridor of the Bureau building. He paused only when he came to theglass door which was lettered in gold: National Bureau of ScientificDevelopment, Dr. William Baker, Director. He was unable to regard thatdoor without a sense of pride. But he was convinced the pride wasthoroughly justifiable.

  He turned the knob and stepped into the office. Then his brisk stridecame to a pause. He closed the door slowly and frowned. The room wasempty. Neither his receptionist nor his secretary, who should have beenvisible in the adjoining room, were at their posts. Through the otheropen 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 tooksome of the glint off this day, he twisted the knob of his own officedoor and strode in.

  He stopped just inside the room, and a warm wave of affection welled upwithin him. All nine members of his immediate staff were gathered aroundthe table in the center of his office. On the table was a cake with pinkfrosting. A single golden candle burned brightly in the middle of theinscription: Happy Birthday, Chief.

  The staff broke into a frighteningly off-key rendition of "HappyBirthday to You." William Baker smiled fondly, catching the eye of eachof 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 mostunexpected. None of you will ever know how much I appreciate yourthoughtfulness."

  "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. Ofcourse, the Government didn't approve of gifts like this. If he observedthe rules strictly, he ought to decline the gift, but he just couldn'tdo that. The faces of Doris and the others were glowing as he held upthe magnificent brief case. This was the first time such a thing hadoccurred in his office, and a man hit fifty only once.

  "Thanks so much for remembering," Baker said. "Things like this andpeople like you make it all worth while."

  When they were all gone he sat down at his desk to take up the day'sroutine. He felt a little twinge of guilt at the great satisfaction thatfilled him. But he couldn't help it. A fine family, an excellentprofessional position--a position of prominence and authority in thefield that interested him most--what more could a man want?

  His meditation was interrupted by the buzzing of the interphone. Pehrsonwas on the other end. "Just reminding you, Chief," the assistant said."Dr. Fenwick will be in at nine-thirty regarding the request for theClearwater 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 therecan 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 alittle time, and he may erupt a bit, but it'll work out."

  Baker cut off and waited while Pehrson came in silently and laid thefile folders of the offending case on the desk. Pehrson was the epitomeof owl-eyed efficiency, but now he showed sympathy behind his greathorn-rimmed spectacles as he considered Baker's plight. "I wish we couldfind some way to make the Clearwater research grant," he said. "Withjust a couple of good Ph. D.'s who had published a few things, the Indexwould 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 foundannoying.

  "I'll send him in as soon as he comes," Pehrson said as he closed thedoor 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 letPehrson handle Fenwick. But one couldn't neglect old friends, eventhough 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, mostlydead ended. Now he was involved in what was probably the most dead endedof all. For the last three years he had been president of littleJerkwater--Clearwater College, and he seemed to have some hope that NBSDcould help him out of the hole.

  That was a mistake many people made. Baker sometimes felt that half histime was spent in explaining that NBSD was not in the business ofhelping people and institutions out of holes. It was in the business ofbuying for the United States Government the best scientific researchavailable in the world.

  Fenwick wanted help that would put Clearwater College on its feetthrough a research contract in solid state physics. Fenwick, thoughtBaker, was dreaming. But that was Fenwick.

  The President of Clearwater College entered the outer office promptly atnine-thirty. Pehrson greeted him, and Doris showed him into Baker'soffice.

  Dr. John Fenwick didn't look like a college president, and Baker,unknowingly, held this vaguely against him, too. He looked more like aprosperous small business man and gave the impression of having justfinished a brisk workout on the handball court, and a cold shower. Hewas ruddy and robust and ill-equipped with academic dignity.

  Baker pumped his hand as if genuinely glad to see him. "It's good to seeyou again, John. Come on over and sit down."

  "I'll bet you hoped I'd break a leg on the way here," said Fenwick. Hetook a chair by the desk and glanced at the file folder, reading thetitle, Clearwater College. "And you've been hoping my application wouldget lost, and the whole thing would just disappear."

  "Now, look, John--" Baker took his own seat behind the desk. Fenwick hadalways had a devilish knack for making him feel uncomfortable.

  "It's all right," said Fenwick, waving away Baker's protests with avigorous flap of his hand. "I know Clearwater isn't MIT or Cal Tech, butwe've got a real hot physics department, and you're going to see somesparks flying out of there if you'll give us half a chance in thefinance department. What's the good word, anyway? Do we get the researchgrant?"


  Baker took a deep breath and settled his arms on the desk in front ofhim, leaning on them for support. He wished Fenwick wasn't so abruptabout things.

  "John," Baker said slowly. "The head of your physics department doesn'teven have a Ph. D. degree."

  Fenwick brightened. "He's working on that, though! I told you that inanswer to the question in the application. Bill, I wish you'd come downand see that boy. The things he can do with crystals would absolutelyknock your hat off. He can stack them just like a kid stacking buildingblocks--crystals that nobody else has ever been able to manipulate sofar. And the electrical characteristics of some of them--you wouldn'tbelieve the transistors he's been able to build!"

  "John," said Baker patiently. "The head of the physics department in anyinstitution receiving a grant must have a Ph. D. degree. That is oneabsolutely minimum requirement."

  "You mean we've got to wait until George finishes his work for hisdegree before we get the grant? That puts us in kind of a predicamentbecause the work that we hoped to have George do under the grant wouldcontribute towards his degree. Can't you put it through on the basisthat he'll have his degree just as soon as the present series ofexperiments is completed?"

  Baker wiped his forehead and looked down at his hands on the desk. "Isaid this is _one_ minimum requirement. There are others, John."

  "Oh, what else are we lacking?" Fenwick looked crestfallen for the firsttime.

  "I may as well be blunt," said Baker. "There is no conceivable way inwhich Clearwater College can be issued a research grant for_anything_--and especially not for basic research in any field ofphysical science."

  * * * * *

  Fenwick just stared at him for a minute as if he couldn't believe whathe had heard, although it was the thing he had expected to hear sincethe moment he sat down.

  He seemed deflated when he finally spoke. "I don't think it was theintent of the Congressional Act that made these funds available," hesaid, "that only the big, plush outfits should get all the gravy. Thereare plenty of smaller schools just like Clearwater who have first ratetalent in their science departments. It isn't fair to freeze us outcompletely--and I don't think it's completely legal, either."

  "Clearwater is not being frozen out. Size has nothing to do with thequestion 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 justwhat is the matter with Clearwater, that we can't get any Governmentresearch contract when every other Tom, Dick, and Harry outfit in thecountry can?"

  "I didn't state my case in exactly those terms, John, but I'll be gladto explain the basis on which we judge the qualifications of aninstitution to receive a grant from us."

  Baker had never done this before for any unsuccessful applicant. Infact, it was the policy of the Bureau to keep the mysteries of the Indexvery carefully concealed from the public. But Baker wanted Fenwick toknow what had hung him. It was the one more or less merciful thing hecould do to show Fenwick what was wrong, and might be sufficient toshake him loose from his dismal association with Clearwater.

  Baker opened the file folder and Fenwick saw now that it wasconsiderably 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'sfingers. Then Baker opened the accordian folds of a four-foot long chartand spread it on the desk top.

  "This is the Index," he said, "a composite of all the individual chartswhich you saw ahead of it. This Index shows in graphical form therelationship between the basic requirements for obtaining a researchgrant and the actual qualifications of the applicant. This line marksthe 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 chartwere well inside the area on Baker's side of the line. He guessed thatthe 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 plottedindividually against standards which have been derived from anexamination of all possible sources of information."

  "Such as?"

  "For example, the student burden per faculty Ph. D. That is shown onthis chart here."

  "The what? Say that again," said Fenwick in bewilderment.

  "The number of students enrolled, plotted against the number ofdoctorate 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 herdoctorate next summer."

  "I'm afraid that doesn't help us now. Besides, it would have to be in afield pertinent to your application to have much weight."

  "George--"

  "Doesn't help you at all for the present. You would require a minimum oftwo in the physics department alone. These two would have to be ofabsolutely top quality with a prolific publication record. That wouldbring this factor to a bare minimum."

  "You take the number of Ph. D.'s and multiply them by the number ofpapers published and the years of experience and divide by the number ofstudents 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 forand granted. Periods of consultation by private industry, and so on.Each of these factors is plotted separately, then combined into theoverall Index."

  Baker turned the pages slowly, showing Fenwick a bleak record of blackboundary lines cutting through nearly virginal territory on the charts.Clearwater's evaluation was reflected in a small spot of color near thebottom edge.

  * * * * *

  Fenwick stared at the record without expression for a long time. "Whatelse do you chart?" he said finally.

  "The next thing we evaluate is the performance of students graduatedduring 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 suchan anomalous showing in the chart of this factor."

  Fenwick observed that the colored area had made a considerable invasionon his side of the boundary on this chart. "Why anomalous? It looks likewe make a pretty good showing here."

  "On the face of it, this is true," Baker admitted. "The ten-year recordof the graduates of Clearwater is exceptional. But the past decade hasbeen 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 recognizedhere."

  "There might be," said Fenwick. "There might be, at that."

  "Another factor which contributes to the Index," said Baker, "is thecultural impact of the institution upon the community. We measure thatin terms of the number and quality of cultural activities brought intothe 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 busywith their own shindigs that they would
n't know what to do if we broughta long-hair performance into town. If it isn't square-dancing in theGrange Hall, it's a pageant in the Masonic Temple. The married kidswould probably like to see a Broadway play, all right, but they're sodarned busy rehearsing their own in the basement of the Methodist Churchthat I doubt they could find time to come. Besides that, there's thecommunity choir every Thursday, and the high school music department hasa recital nearly every month. People would drop dead if they had anymore to go to in Clearwater. I'd say our culture is doing pretty good."

  "Folk activities are always admirable," said Baker, "but improvement ofthe cultural level in any community depends on the injection of outsideinfluences, and this is one of the functions of the university.Clearwater College has not performed its obligation to the community inthis respect."

  Fenwick appeared to be growing increasingly ruddy. Baker thought he sawmoisture appearing on Fenwick's forehead.

  "I know this is difficult to face," said Baker sympathetically, "but Iwanted you to understand, once and for all, just how Clearwater Collegeappears to the completely objective eye."

  Fenwick continued to stare at him without comment. Then he said flatly,"Let's see some more