From the Improvement Era, April 1969 –

Personal Appraisal

By Roger Winship Stuart

Smoothly, silently, the elevator door glided open. Bob Bridges drew a hand across his red hair, took a deep breath, and began walking down the eighth-floor corridor.

For an instant the college senior halted outside the double glass doors of T. J. Rayfieid & Company. He buttoned the jacket of his neat gray suit. Then, just as before, with a kind of nervous excitement, Bob entered the corporation’s chrome-and-glass-dominated executive offices.

No, things were not quite the same. The big reception room, minus all those other applicants, looked different. This time, the only person in sight was his friend Larry Clawson.

Larry’s dark eyes looked up. “Hi, Bob.”

“‘Morning, Larry. Big day.”

Larry sighed. “Last lap, I guess. Good luck.”

Bob crossed the room and impulsively thrust out his hand. “The same to you, fella.”

The same pretty blonde secretary, with the same (or a reasonable facsimile) warm, friendly smile, came to greet them— except now she was saying something about a time limit of five minutes.

“You’re kidding,” Larry scoffed.

“Five minutes!” Bob gasped. “Do you mean to say Mr. Rayfieid intends to give us just five minutes apiece?”

The secretary’s smile persisted. “Mr. Rayfieid has an exceptionally full schedule this morning.”

Larry worked his jaws. “B-but there must be some mistake, Miss Marsh. I understood this was to be the final interview.”

“You understood correctly. Please, Mr. Bridges, do sit down. Mr. Rayfield will be with you shortly. As for the time limit, he thinks fie minutes will be quite sufficient.”

Miss Marsh excused herself and withdrew, leaving the two college friends staring incredulously at each other.

Bob slumped down in a chair. What sort of guy, he wondered, was this fabulous T. J. R.? So he had built up a thriving business, mainly on the basis of his Rayfield Compact Computer, as near perfect a piece of equipment, supposedly, as anything the age of automation had yet produced. So what! If he thought —

Larry’s voice broke in. “How do you figure he imagines either one of us — or anybody, for that matter — could sell himself in five lousy minutes?”

Bob shook his head. “Makes no sense to me.”

“Why did he bother to have us come 9in at all?”

“Exactly. If he’s that pressed for time, wouldn’t you think he’d simply skip this so-called ‘final interview’?”

Larry opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. Miss Marsh and her smile were back again.

“Mr. Rayfield will see you now.” She looked at Bob. “You first, Mr. Bridges.”

The rugged industrialist — a square-jawed 50-year-old who seemed scarcely 40 — exuded energy and confidence. He wasted no time. What took place, though, bore little resemblance to the usual interview. It was nine-tenths monologue.

Already standing when the door to his private office opened, Mr. Rayfield came forward, hand outstretched. “Glad to see you again, Bob.” His grip was reassuringly firm. “Sit right here.”

He moved lightly, with amazing swiftness for so large a man, to his own leather chair behind the massive desk. There was no evidence of relaxation in his posture. He sat erect, his keen yes almost piercing.

“It’s been quite a gauntlet you’ve run — you and Larry Clawson.”

Bob smiled wryly.

“Yes, quite a gauntlet. When we started out to find a young man to train for this junior executive post, there were 49 applicants. Of course, the first 20 were eliminated in rather short order. I must say I’m pleased with the way you and Larry have come through our barrage of tests, interviews, and investigations.”

Glancing at a paper on his desk, Mr. Rayfield continued without pause. “It’s narrowed down now to you two. We’re about ready to make a final decision. But first, I’m asking you to do something that could well be the most difficult test of all.”

Despite his curiosity, Bob waited, saying nothing.

“I’ll give you the assignment in a moment,” the prospective employer went on. “Meanwhile, in case you are the one we choose, you ought to know how the company feels about certain matters.”

Bob nodded, and the industrialist rose to his feet and began to pace the floor.

“It’s commonplace,” he said, talking as he walked, “to say we’re in a new age, a revolutionary era. Times have changed. Methods are being radically improved. You might be surprised to know, for instance, how much we relied on computers in evaluating all of the applicants.”

The pacing halted. From a distance of three or four yards, Mr. Rayfield declared, “But not everything’s changed. Basic values remain. Oh, I Know, we hear a lot today about cutthroat business practices, betrayed confidences, industrial espionage — among other things. And that may be one side of the picture. But it’s only one side.”

He’s an intelligent guy, Bob was thinking. He didn’t call me in here just of the fun of it — or to audit a fie-minute speech. What is he leading up to?

Aloud, the senior said, “I’ve talked with some businessmen who are a lot more cynical than you, sir.”

“Cynical?” Mr. Rayfield’s eyes flashed. “I’m sure you have, Bob. So have I.”

The pacing resumed. “At any rate, I still believe in old-fashioned loyalty and reliability. I am convinced that some men can be trusted. There is still integrity in this world, if you can find it – and it has to be found, for it’s essential to the proper functioning of industry.”

Bob, though listening attentively, thought, He’s using up those precious fie minutes. Then what will he do?

“That old saying, ‘honesty pays,’ isn’t as out of date as some think. Why do you suppose this company is always on the lookout for trustworthy men? Because we need them. Employees can be taught new methods, faster and ore efficient ways to solve problems. But character is something else.”

With a quick glance at his watch, the industrialist returned to his chair. Equally as abrupt was his change of subject.

“Now, Bob, in your application and in your tests you have given us considerable information about yourself. You’ve supplied good reasons why the company might profitably hire you. Larry Clawson, naturally, has done the same thing.

“At this point we want you to tackle something quite different: we want your personal appraisal of Larry.”

“Of Larry?” Bob gasped.

“Right. But it is to be an appraisal in negative terms. You will confine yourself to giving reasons why your rival would not be suitable as a junior executive of T. J. Ray field & Company.”

Bob’s jaw dropped. He stared. “Hold on a minute. What you ask—”

“It’s a tough assignment, I know,” Mr. Rayfield broke in. “But please don’t think this is a one-sided proposition, I will have Larry in here shortly, and he will be given the same assignment with respect to you.”

Bob shook his head. But the older man, raising a hand, went on, “I understand you two are long-time friends. You know each other’s faults and weak points. Tell us about them— not that we’ll necessarily be guided by what you say, but the appraisal at least will give us another look at you and your ability to size up a man’s potential.”

Bob’s frown deepened. “May I ask a question?”

“I’m afraid not. Time’s up.” The industrialist rose. “I’ll show you to another room, where you can write. You’ll be allowed 15 minutes. If you finish sooner, please remain there until I send for your paper.”

In the little room to which he was ushered, Bob spent the first couple of minutes pacing the floor, muttering to himself. So this was how the company chose to conclude its famous “weeding-out” process! He didn’t like it. Had T. J. Rayfield’s talk about old-fashioned loyalty and integrity been just talk? So it seemed.

Pausing before a window, he could see, far across town, several of the college buildings. Alumni Chapel’s tall spire crowned the hill. Below, the white-pillared front of Kenyon Hall showed plainly. And edging out from a clump of trees was a portion of the Business Administration Building.

Business administration meant Professor Delby. In his mind’s eye, Bob saw him too— bushy gray hair and all. The veteran professor was more than just another member of the faculty. Never aloof, never too busy to hear a fellow’s woes or to offer a hand in solving a problem— academic or personal— he was counselor, guide, and friend.

Wait until I tell Prof about this. Will he ever have to revise his estimate of the great T. J. R.!

Professor Delby was the one who had started the ball rolling on this competitive project for both Bob and Larry. Not only had he placed their names at the head of his list of prospects; he had also made it his business to convince each of them that the chance to compete for a post-graduation opening with the Rayfield organization was well worth pursuing.

“Opportunity of a lifetime,” he had called it. And no one could have watched the progress of these two through the interviews with keener interest than the veteran professor. Helpful to both, he had favored neither, hoping only that one or the other of “Delby’s boys” might emerge as the ultimate winner.

Sighing, Bob turned from the window and walked over to the desk, which was bare except for some sheets of paper and two needle-sharp yellow pencils. Seated, he took out his own ballpoint pen and scowlingly commenced to doodle.

To lose out at this stage will be rough, he told himself. Until now, I didn’t realize how much I wanted to win. Ah, well, there’s some consolation knowing I’ll have lost to the best man of the lot. Good old Larry. How it will grind him to learn he must tear me apart for the edification of T. J. R.!

Bob tore his doodle-filled sheet from the pad. Crumpling it, he tossed the wad of paper into a wastebasket. At last, he settled down to write.

The pretty blonde secretary with the durable smile came to pick up his appraisal, and Bob shortly found himself once more being escorted into the spacious private office of Mr. Rayfield.

At almost precisely the same moment, Larry Clawson entered. Neither one spoke, but for a brief instant their eyes met. Then Larry came across the room to take a seat beside his rival on the long leather sofa.

Meanwhile, at the massive desk, Mr. Rayfield seemed to be absorbed with paper work. Bob wondered why he had bothered to summon both of them. Why wouldn’t it have been sufficient to notify the winner, and let the other quietly go his way?

“I think it would be well,” said the industrialist, looking up without expression, “to read these aloud. I’ll read the shorter appraisal first.”

Bob stirred uneasily, and a deep flush invaded his cheeks, as he listened to the sound of the words he had just written:

“I have been asked to prepare a negative’ appraisal of Larry Clawson, who, like myself, is a candidate for employment with T. J. Rayfield & Company.

“If the request had covered Larry’s positive qualities, it would be a pleasure to comply, for, through long acquaintance, I have learned to know him well, to appreciate his many virtues and talents, and to admire his character.

“We happen to be competing for the same job. But Larry and I are not mere acquaintances. We are friends. As his friend, I could not possibly attempt to supply a list of Larry’s ‘negative’ qualities.

“I am aware that, by failing to carry out the assignment, I shall have eliminated myself from further consideration for the post. This I sincerely regret. But my regret would be much greater if I were to win knowing that success had been based in the slightest degree on any statement of mine which could be construed as derogatory of a friend.”

Dropping the paper on his desk, Mr. Rayfield remarked dryly, “That’s that. It is signed, ‘Respectfully submitted, Robert Bridges.’ ”

A wave of silence flooded the office. The industrialist took up the second paper. “Now,” he said, “listen to this one. The remarkable thing about it . . . well, that will be self-evident when you hear it.”

Once more he read aloud. The “remarkable” aspect of Larry Clawson’s contribution was, indeed, almost immediately apparent: Save in its somewhat different phraseology, it practically duplicated the other.

Both writers had rejected the assignment. Their expressed reasons were the same, and each had acknowledged the fact— as he saw it— that failure to list his competitor’s “negative” qualities automatically eliminated the writer as a candidate.

“Anyone who didn’t know how well separated we kept you two,” said Mr. Rayfield, smiling faintly, “might think you had worked these out together.

“In one respect,” he continued thoughtfully, “you both made the wrong assumption— your belief that failure to ‘downgrade’ the other fellow would result in your disqualification. As a matter of fact, I hold to the view that no man may safely be considered loyal, where the organization is concerned, if in a pinch he cannot be trusted to stand by a friend.”

Pausing deliberately, the industrialist stood up.

“The very fact that each of you refused to sell your own friend short to advance your competitive standing,” he concluded, “solidifies my belief that the company would do well to offer junior executive posts to you both.”

Later, as the two executives-to-be were leaving, Mr. Rayfield remarked, “You know, it wouldn’t have surprised me if you fellows had decided to wind up your papers with that quote Prof Delby is always spouting: When Zeno was asked what a friend was, he replied, ‘Another I.’ ”

Bob and Larry exchanged surprised glances, and Bob said, “I didn’t realize you knew about that, sir.”

“But of course,” laughed the middle-aged industrialist. “You see, once upon a time I, too, was one of ‘Delby’s boys.’ “