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Tom DeMarco |
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The
Deadline (Preface)
The following material from The Deadline by Tom DeMarco
[ISBN:0-932633-39-0] appears by permission of Dorset House Publishing Co.
Copyright © 1997 by Dorset House Publishing Co. All rights reserved.
Copies for noncommercial use may be made, provided that the text appears
in its entirety and includes this notice. For ordering information, contact
1-800-342-6657, 212-620-4053, dhpubco@aol.com,
or http://www.dorsethouse.com
During the 1930's, the University of Colorado physicist George Gamow
began writing a series of short stories about a certain Mr. Tompkins, a
middle-aged bank clerk. Mr. Tompkins, the stories related, was interested
in modern science. He would trundle off to evening lectures put on by a
local university physics professor, and inevitably fall asleep partway through.
When he awoke, he would find himself in some alternate universe where one
or another of the basic physical constants was strikingly changed.
In one of these stories, for example, Mr.
T. awoke in a universe where the speed of light was only fifteen miles per
hour. That meant he could observe relativistic effects on his bicycle: The
city blocks became shorter in the direction of travel as he accelerated,
and time on the post office clock slowed down. In another story, Mr. Tompkins
visited a world where Planck's Constant was 1.0, and there he could see
quantum mechanics in action on a billiard table: The billiard balls refused
to move smoothly across the table, but took up quantum positions in probabilistic
fashion.
When I first came across the Gamow stories,
I was just a teenager. Like Mr. Tompkins, I too had an interest in modern
science. I had already read numerous descriptions of relativity and quantum
mechanics, but it was only when I read Mr. Tompkins in Wonderland that I
began to develop a visceral sense of what these matters were all about.
I have always admired Gamow's ingenious pedagogical
device. It occurred to me that a similar device might be used to demonstrate
some of the principles of project management. All I'd have to do is portray
a veteran project manager sent off to some Wonderland where various of the
rules governing project work could be instructively altered. Thus was born,
with apologies to George Gamow, the idea of The Deadline, the story of a
manager named Tompkins and his remarkable experiences running software projects
in the ex-Soviet Republic of Morovia.
Tom DeMarco
May 1997
Camden, Maine
The
Deadline
Chapter 1: Opportunity Knocking
Mr. Tompkins took his seat in the very last row of Baldrige-One, the
main auditorium at the Big Telephone and Telecommunications Company's Penelope,
New Jersey, facility. He'd spent a lot of time in this auditorium during
the past few weeks, attending out-placement lectures. Mr. T., along with
a few thousand other professional and middle management employees, was being
given the boot. Oh, that wasn't the term they used. They preferred to call
it "made redundant" or "downsized" or "right-sized"
or "streamlined" or "managed down" or, best of all,
"Released to Seek Opportunities Elsewhere." They'd even made an
acronym out of that one: ReSOE. Tompkins was a ReSOE.
Today's event was yet another in the series
called "Opportunity Knocking." This five-week program, according
to the posted notice, was to be "more than 100 hours of inspirational
training, skits, musical interludes, and celebration of ReSOE status."
The still-employed Human Resources people who put on the various sessions
seemed pretty convinced that ReSOE was a blessing in disguise. They made
it clear that they would have dearly loved to be ReSOEs themselves. They
really would. But no such luck. No sir, they would just have to soldier
on, bearing the burdens of salary and benefits as best they could. Up on
the stage now, they were trying to put on a brave front.
The last few rows of the auditorium were in
what the acoustic engineers called a "null area." For some reason
(no one had even a good theory about this), almost no sound from the stage
could be heard in these rows. It made it a perfect place for a snooze. Tompkins
always sat here.
He put down today's ton of handouts on the
seat in front of him. Two fat loose-leaf notebooks and the usual assortment
of favors were packed into a new canvas bag with its printed logo: "Our
Company Is Thinning Down So the Rest of the World Can Fatten Up." At
the top of the bag was a baseball cap embroidered "ReSOE and Proud
of It!" Tompkins put the hat on, pulled it down over his face and,
within a few minutes, drifted off to sleep.
* * *
A long chorus line of HR people on the
stage was singing "Opportunity Knocking: Okay!" The audience was
supposed to clap the rhythm and join in at the chorus, shouting out "Okay!"
as loud as they could. At the left side of the stage was a man with a megaphone,
exhorting the audience with cries of "Louder! Louder!" A few people
in the crowd were clapping softly, but no one was shouting. Still, the noise,
even the little bit that penetrated the null area, was enough to rouse Mr.
T.
He yawned and straightened up in his chair.
The first thing he noticed was that someone else was sitting there in the
quiet zone, only one seat away. The second thing he noticed was that she
was lovely. She seemed to be in her early thirties, dark and rather exotic-looking:
mid-length black hair in a Dutch cut, very dark eyes. She was looking up
at the muted stage act and smiling very slightly. It was not exactly a smile
of approval. He thought he might have seen her somewhere before.
"Did I miss anything?" he asked.
She kept her eyes on the stage. "Only
some very important stuff."
"Could you net it out for me?"
"They want you to go away but not change
your long-distance account over to MCI."
"Anything else?"
"Um . . . let's see, you've been asleep
for about an hour. Was there anything else during that hour? No, I guess
not. Some songs."
"I see. A typically triumphant morning
for HR."
"Ooooh. Mr. Tompkins has awakened, how
shall we say it? in a slightly bilious mood."
"I see. A typically triumphant morning
for HR.
"Ooooh. Mr. Tompkins has awakened, how
shall we say it? in a slightly bilious mood."
"I see you have the advantage over me," Mr. T. said, offering
his hand.
"Tompkins."
"Hoolihan," she said, shaking his
hand. Her eyes, as she turned to face him, were not just dark, but almost
black. It felt good looking into them. Mr. Tompkins found himself blushing
slightly.
"Umm . . . first name, Webster. Webster
Tompkins."
"Lahksa."
"Funny name."
"It's an old Balkan name. From Morovia."
"But Hoolihan . . . ?"
"Mmm. A girlish indiscretion on my mother's
part. He was Irish, a deckhand on a freighter. A rather cute deckhand, I
understand. Mother always had a weakness for sailors." She smiled at
him lopsidedly. Tompkins felt a sudden extra beat in his heart.
"Ah," he said, cleverly.
"Ah."
"We've met, I think." He meant it
as a question.
"Yes." She didn't go on.
"I see." He still couldn't remember
where it might have been. He looked around the auditorium. There wasn't
another soul anywhere near enough to hear. They were sitting in a public
auditorium and yet were able to have a private conversation. He turned back
to his charming neighbor. "You're a ReSOE, I take it?"
"No."
"No? Staying on then?"
"Also no."
"I don't get it."
"Not an employee at all. The truth is
that I'm a spy."
He laughed, thinking it a joke. "Do tell."
"An industrial spy. You've heard of such
things?"
"Yes, I guess."
"You don't believe me."
"Well, . . . it's just that you don't
look the part."
She smiled that maddening smile again. Of
course, she did look the part. In fact, she looked like she was born for
the part.
"Not exactly, I mean."
She shook her head. "I can give you proof."
She unclipped her identity badge and passed it to him.
Tompkins looked down at the badge. It was
imprinted HOOLIHAN, Lahksa, over her photo. "Wait a minute . . ."
he said, looking more closely at the badge. On the surface it looked okay,
but there was something wrong with the lamination. In fact, it wasn't a
lamination at all; it was just plastic wrap. He peeled it back and the photo
came away from the badge. He saw there was another photo underneath, this
one of a middle-aged man. And now that he looked, her name was on a sticky
label pasted on the front of the badge. He lifted the label and saw the
name STORGEL, Walter, underneath. "Why, this is about the worst forgery
I can imagine."
She sighed. "The resources available
within the Morovian KVJ are not what you'd call 'sophisticated.'"
"You really are . . . ?"
"Mmm. Going to turn me in?"
"Uh . . ." A month ago, of course,
he would have done just that. But a lot of things can happen in a month,
things that change you. He thought about it for a moment. "No, I don't
think so." He handed her back the pieces of her badge, which she tucked
neatly into her purse.
"Wasn't Morovia some kind of a, well,
a Communist country?" Tompkins asked her.
"Uh huh. Sort of."
"You worked for a Communist government?"
"I guess you could say that."
He shook his head. "What's the point?
I mean, if the 1980's proved anything, it was that Communism is a bankrupt
philosophy."
"Mmm. The 1990's, of course, are showing
us that the alternative ain't too great either."
"Well, it is true that there have been
a lot of layoffs."
"Only 3.3 million lost jobs in the last
nine months. Yours among them."
A long pause as Mr. Tompkins digested that
thought. Now it was he who said, "Mmm," and he thought, What a
heavy conversation. He switched gears, artfully, "Tell me, Ms. Hoolihan,
what's it like to be a spy? I mean, I am in the market for a new job."
"Oh no, Webster, you're not the spy type,"
she snickered. "Not the type at all."
He felt a bit miffed. "Well, I don't
know about that."
"You're a manager. A systems manager,
and a good one."
"Some people don't seem to think so.
I've, after all, been ReSOEd."
"Some people don't seem to think at all.
Such people tend to become executives in large companies like this one."
"Yes, well. Anyway, just for my information,
do tell me what's involved in being a spy. I mean, I never got to meet one
before."
"As you might expect, stealing corporate
secrets, the odd kidnapping, maybe occasionally bumping someone off."
"Really?!?"
"Oh, sure. All in a day's work."
"Well, that doesn't seem very respectable.
You would actually kidnap people or even . . . you know, kill them, just
to gain commercial advantage?"
She yawned. "I guess. Not just anybody,
though. For bumping off, I mean. Whoever it was would have to deserve it."
"Well, even so. I'm not at all sure I
approve. I mean, I'm quite sure I don't approve. What kind of a person would
kidnap another human being-we just won't even talk about the other-what
kind of a person would do that?"
"A pretty clever person, I guess."
"Clever?!? You have to be clever to do
that?"
"Not the actual act of kidnapping. That's
fairly mechanical. No, the trick is, knowing whom to kidnap." She bent
down to her feet where there was a small refrigerator bag from which she
took a canned soft drink and opened it. "Could I offer you a drink?"
"Um. No, thanks. I really don't drink
anything but . . ."
". . . diet Dr. Pepper." She pulled
out a cold can of diet Dr. Pepper.
"Oh. Well, since you have one . . ."
She pulled the tab and passed it to him. "Cheers,"
she said, clunking her drink against his.
"Cheers." He drank a mouthful. "What's
so hard about knowing whom to kidnap?"
"Let me answer that question with a question.
What's the hardest job in management?"
"People," Tompkins replied automatically.
He knew exactly where he stood on this subject. "Getting the right
people for the right job. That's what makes the difference between a good
manager and a drone.
"Mmm."
Now he remembered where it was he had seen
her before. It was in that corporate management class he'd taken almost
half a year ago. She had been in the last row, only a few seats away when
he had stood up to contest the seminar leader on this very point. Yes, now
he remembered. They'd sent some guy named Kalbfuss, Edgar Kalbfuss, to teach
the course, a guy who was probably about twenty-five and had obviously never
managed anything or anyone. And he was there to teach management to people
like Tompkins, who'd been managing for half their lives. And the worst of
it was, he was prepared to teach a whole week with (judging from the agenda)
not a single thing to say about people management. Tompkins stood, told
him off, and then walked out. Life was too short for that kind of "training."
She'd heard it that day, but now he told her
again what he'd said to Kalbfuss: "Get the right people. Then, no matter
what all else you may do wrong after that, the people will save you. That's
what management is all about."
"Mmm."
A long, significant silence.
"Oh." Tompkins caught on at last.
"You're suggesting that figuring out the right people to kidnap is
the same?"
"Sure. You have to pick the ones who
will give your side a meaningful advantage, and whose loss will cripple
your competitor. It's not easy knowing whom to pick."
"Well, I don't know. I suppose you could
just pick the most prominent person within an organization. Wouldn't it
be as simple as that?"
"Get serious. If I really wanted to harm
this organization, for example, would I pick the most prominent person?
The CEO, for example?"
"Oh. Well, certainly not in this case.
I guess if you removed the CEO, the company's stock would probably go up
about twenty points."
"Exactly. This is what I call the Roger
Smith Effect, after the past chairman of General Motors. I was the one who
decided to sabotage GM by not removing Smith."
"Oh. Good job."
"Now, if I did want to do some real damage
to the Big Telephone and Telecommunications Company, I'd know exactly which
managers to pick."
"You would?" Tompkins had some ideas
of his own about who was really indispensable to the company.
"Sure. Want to see?" She took a
pad out of her purse and wrote down three names. Then, she considered for
a moment, and wrote down a fourth. She passed the pad to him.
He stared at the list. "Ugh," Tompkins
said. "This would be like bombing the company back into the dark ages.
You've picked exactly the four who . . . Wait a minute, these people are
friends of mine. They have spouses and kids. You're not thinking of . .
. ?"
"Oh, no. Don't worry about them. As long
as the company keeps its present executive level, there is no need to sabotage
it. Believe me, your soon-to-be-former employer is going nowhere, with these
four good managers or without. It's not them I'm here for, Webster. It's
you."
"Me?"
"Uh huh."
"For what? What use would the Morovian
K-V- . . . whatever it is, have for me?"
"The KVJ. No, it's not the KVJ that needs
you, but the Nation State of Morovia."
"Explain, please."
"Well, our Nation's Noble Leader, we
call him NNL, for short, has proclaimed that Morovia will be first in the
world in export of shrink-wrapped software by the year 2000. It's our grand
plan for the future. We're building a world-class software factory. And
we need someone to manage it. It's as simple as that."
"You're proposing to hire me?"
"Sort of."
"I'm flabbergasted."
"Also available."
"Well, that's true enough." Tompkins
took another swig of his drink. He looked at her cagily. "Tell me what
you're offering."
"Oh, we can discuss that later. When
we're there."
He laughed, incredulously. "There? You
think I'm going off to Morovia with you before we've even discussed terms."
"I do."
"I find that a very dubious proposition.
I mean, given what I know about you and your inclination to use heavy-handed
methods. Who knows what you might do to me if I decided not to accept your
offer?"
"Who knows indeed?"
"I'd be a very foolish fellow to go with
you. . . ." He stopped, wondering what he'd been going to say next.
His tongue seemed a bit thick in his mouth, like a dry rag.
"Very foolish. Yes," she agreed.
"I, uh . . ." Tompkins looked down
at the drink in his hand. "Say, you wouldn't have . . . ?"
"Mmm," she said, smiling her mysterious
smile.
"Urghhhhh. . . ."
A moment later, Mr. Tompkins slid quietly
down into his seat, quite unconscious.
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