L. E. Modesitt, jr.
The Great American Economy
Sometimes the builder of a better mousetrap doesn't want anyone to know about it!
"What a miserable day it is," groused James Boulin Chartwell, III.
As junior member of the Council of Economic Advisers, he often groused. When he didn't grouse, he grumbled.
George didn't exactly agree with his boss. True, the smog had cut the visibility outside to less than a hundred yards. The April day was grayer than usual, but what else could you really expect in the
Greater Washington Reservation? "George! Do you know that our figures are off by One Hundredth of One Percent?"
George sighed. He'd known since yesterday when the monthly inflation statistics had been printed out that there would be trouble. For the third month in a row there had been a small, but significant, inflationary trend in the Gross National Products figures. The unplanned increase could not be ex-plained by increases in wages, construction costs, defense spending, conservation and reclamation projects, or anything else.
"George! Do you hear me? The President is Not At All Happy about this. If it gets out that there has already been an annual rate of inflation of over one tenth of one percent this year, that could swing Public Opinion heavily in the elections. You know we can't keep it a secret much longer."
James Boulin Chartwell, III, re-filled his glass with One Hundred Percent Pure mineral water.
"I take it, sir, that you would earnestly desire me to discover the cause of this Blight upon our Great American Economy." George was about ready to quit, if only he could persuade himself that leaving the Reservation would not be the end of his career.
"I don't give an obsolete gold piece what you do. But you ought to want to know how this could happen, when Government Expenditures are registered to the Last Penny, and when our computers keep track of the Private Sector to the Very Last Dime." James Boulin Chartwell, III, was a firm devotee of the bureaucratic school that spoke in Capital Letters.
George sighed again. It would be a long day.
"George! Don't you understand? It Can't Happen. It just Can't Hap-pen." James Boulin Chatwell, III, finished his second glass of One Hundred Percent Pure mineral water.
George shrugged. He knew why it wasn't supposed to happen. The growth of the non-government sector was computed on a full-coverage, day-by-day, real-time basis, taking into account all variables such as price and wage increases, construction rates, investment rates, and savings. The basic government budget was programmed into the computers as well. Adjustments in the basic growth rates were made on a weekly basis by changing the magnitudes of variable items in the government budget. The system was about ten years old in its present form. It had worked reasonably well, although many government agencies complained bitterly about budgets that varied from week to week. Defense and Urban Affairs, of course, were above variable controls. Status was working in a department with a Fixed Budget.
"Well," demanded James Boulin Chartwell, III, "do you think that you can Solve The Problem?"
George shrugged again. He wanted his morning Coke.
"I'll see what I can find out."
As he left the office, he smiled at Mildred. She glared back, as usual. She disliked George's flippant attitude toward the Very Respected Junior Adviser.
George wandered down to the cafeteria. It was after coffee break and deserted. He picked up a cup, filled it with ice, and pounded on the soda dispenser until it delivered his Coke. He debated sitting down, then went back to the office he shared with two secretaries and three other junior economists. Tricia was the only one present. He looked at her.
"Mary took leave today. She'll be back tomorrow." Tricia had a very pleasant voice. She also weighed close to two hundred pounds and was a head taller than George. George liked to consider himself as a full six feet.
He eased behind his desk, setting the cup down on his blotter. Tricia began to type again.
"Tricia, can you get me the in-come figures on the Mafia for the last quarter?"
She nodded, but did not stop typing.
"Now! Damn it!"
"Yes, Mr. Graylin."
He looked around the office. He imagined that the other three economists were scattered all over the Washington Reservation briefing various staffs on the sundry economic idiocies still existing.
"Tricia, add to that a summary of the major flow of Union Funds.
Make sure that includes the pension funds and the mutuals."
"Yes, sir."
He felt guilty for yelling. He'd pay for it later. He sipped the Coke and tried to think. Who could be pumping all those dollars into the economy?
"Mr. Graylin, your read-outs are coming through."
"Thank you, Tricia." He went over and collected the first pile of printouts. Tricia smiled too sweetly and resumed typing.
After five hours, including a hasty Coke and a sandwich, he was still in the dark about the Blight on the Great American Economy.
He picked up the phone and punched out a combination.
"Morey, this is George Graylin. I've got a problem that maybe you could help me with. Can you stop by after dinner - say about eight-thirty?"
"Fine with me, George. Delores has chamber music appreciation tonight."
George wound up the rest of the afternoon's trivia, had a Coke, and dinner, in the cafeteria, then marched to the Reservation gate. The exit machine refused his bank card and insisted on his ID. Outside it was raining. He had left his raincoat in the office. He only had to straight-arm one secretary to get a cab, but got a faceful of Mace when the girl already in the back panicked. On the second try he made it. After locking the doors, he dialed in his block code. The cab almost wouldn't accept his slightly mangled bank card, but finally digested the information after burping the bent card back twice.
Exiting the cab at full gallop, he dashed into the foyer, slammed his entry card into the gate, and slipped through into the apartment recreation hall. A few were playing pool, but the area was generally deserted. Eight was still early in the evening.
Morey Weissenburg was small and intense. He was a very good attorney.
"Let me get this straight, George. Someone or some organization is putting money into the economy. What's wrong with that?"
"No, no. It's not that. Somehow someone is putting money into the economy that never entered the country legally or was never earned here."
"How do you figure that?"
"Because for the last three months, overall income is higher than the total of all goods and services indicates it should be. It's driving us nuts. The Honorable James Boulin Chartwell, III, especially. Taxes are being paid on that unknown money. It pays for more goods and services. It's not from the government."
George gulped down the rest of his Coke.
"So you're wondering if one of my clients might know where this extra cash is coming from?"
"Morey, I checked the records of your boys before I called you. As far as I can tell, they have nothing to do with it. It just boils down to the fact that there is more money in the country than this country could have produced."
"I get the picture. And you figure that if you can't solve it, you're liable to get a runaway inflation?"
Morey was sipping Scotch, intensely.
"Not really. It's not even a whole lot of money. Could be as little as three to five million. Maybe less, depending on where it's dumped into the economy and the multiplier effect. The real problem for me is that it's got the Council all upset because their pretty little charts don't work out."
George wandered into the kitchen, grabbed another Coke and poured it into his glass.
"Care for more Scotch?" he mumbled while crunching an ice cube.