The following week, Mr Blottisham arrived carrying a graph.
Not a report.
Not a brochure.
A graph.
It had been mounted on cardboard.
Quillibrace observed this development with concern.
"You appear to have brought evidence."
"I have."
"Into a conversation?"
"Yes."
"How adventurous."
Blottisham placed the graph on a side table.
Miss Stray examined it politely.
"What does it show?"
Blottisham smiled.
"Improvement."
Quillibrace stared at the graph.
The graph stared back.
After several moments he asked:
"In what?"
Blottisham looked puzzled.
"In performance."
"What performance?"
"The important kind."
A silence followed.
Stray studied the graph more carefully.
"It rises quite steadily."
"Exactly."
"How reassuring."
Blottisham nodded.
"That is the point."
Quillibrace leaned back.
"I've always admired rising lines."
"You have?"
"No."
The graph remained between them.
Blottisham pointed proudly.
"This quarter's metrics are exceptional."
"Are they?"
"Record levels."
"Of what?"
"Performance."
Quillibrace rubbed his forehead.
"Blottisham, are you attempting to prove a theorem?"
"No."
"Then at some point the nouns must become specific."
Stray laughed.
Blottisham looked wounded.
"You academics always do this."
"Do what?"
"Ask what things mean."
"Occupational hazard."
The fire crackled.
Outside, rain drifted gently across the windows.
Inside, the graph continued its upward journey.
Stray eventually spoke.
"What interests me is that the graph seems to function rhetorically."
Blottisham blinked.
"Rhetorically?"
"Yes."
"It shows information."
"Perhaps."
She pointed.
"But notice what happens when it appears."
"What?"
"The discussion changes."
Quillibrace nodded.
"Indeed."
"How so?" asked Blottisham.
Stray considered.
"Before the graph arrives, people ask whether something is working."
"Yes."
"After the graph arrives, they ask whether the line is rising."
The room became quiet.
Blottisham frowned.
"Those seem closely related."
Quillibrace smiled.
"Closely related things occasionally spend years avoiding one another."
Blottisham glanced again at the graph.
"It still seems useful."
"Oh, undoubtedly," said Quillibrace.
"I'm glad we agree."
"I didn't say I agreed."
"You said it was useful."
"So is a thermometer."
Blottisham waited.
Quillibrace continued.
"But one becomes nervous when the thermometer begins defining health."
Stray closed her notebook.
"I think metrics have a curious property."
"What property?"
"They migrate."
Blottisham looked alarmed.
"Metrics migrate?"
"Conceptually."
"Oh."
"They begin as indicators."
"Yes."
"Then become targets."
"Naturally."
"Then become definitions."
The room fell silent.
Quillibrace nodded approvingly.
"A concise history of modern administration."
Blottisham looked unconvinced.
"You're both exaggerating."
"Perhaps," said Quillibrace.
"Definitely."
"Possibly."
Blottisham sighed.
"I attended a performance review last week."
"How brave."
"We spent four hours examining metrics."
"And?"
"Performance improved."
Quillibrace looked interested.
"During the meeting?"
"No."
"Then how do you know?"
"The indicators improved."
"After the meeting?"
"No, before."
A pause followed.
Quillibrace looked at Stray.
Stray looked at Quillibrace.
Neither spoke.
Eventually Blottisham said:
"What?"
Quillibrace chose his words carefully.
"I am attempting to determine whether the meeting was a celebration or a cause."
The fire crackled.
Somewhere in the distance a clock struck the hour.
Blottisham folded his arms.
"You make everything sound absurd."
"No."
Quillibrace gestured toward the graph.
"I merely provide narration."
The graph remained silent.
Which, in Quillibrace's view, was one of its stronger arguments.
After a while Stray spoke again.
"I encountered an interesting phrase recently."
"Oh?"
"'Data-driven decision-making.'"
"Very sensible."
"Perhaps."
She paused.
"But I wondered about the decisions that determine what counts as data."
The room became thoughtful.
Blottisham looked uneasy.
Quillibrace looked delighted.
"An excellent question."
"Why?"
"Because it arrives before the graph."
Blottisham stared into the fire.
Then suddenly brightened.
"I've got it."
"Oh dear," said Quillibrace.
"The solution."
"To what?"
"The disagreement."
Quillibrace braced himself.
"We need more metrics."
Stray closed her eyes briefly.
Quillibrace looked upward.
Whether toward heaven or the ceiling remained unclear.
Blottisham continued enthusiastically.
"If we measured enough things, the problem would disappear."
Quillibrace nodded slowly.
"A fascinating hypothesis."
"You don't agree?"
"My dear Blottisham."
"Yes?"
"There is a school of thought which maintains that if one weighs a cat sufficiently often, one eventually understands zoology."
Blottisham frowned.
"That can't be right."
"Indeed."
"Why not?"
Quillibrace stood and moved toward the window.
Outside, the rain continued.
Inside, the graph continued rising.
Without turning around he replied:
"Because measurement answers the question 'how much?'"
A pause followed.
Then:
"It does not automatically answer the question 'of what?'"
The room became quiet.
Even Blottisham seemed reflective.
Finally he looked again at the graph.
"Do you think it's wrong?"
Quillibrace considered.
"Not at all."
"Then what's the problem?"
Quillibrace smiled.
"The graph is perfectly innocent."
He pointed gently toward it.
"It's the worshippers who concern me."
No comments:
Post a Comment