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Title: Junior Achievement
Author: William Lee
Illustrator: John Schoenherr
Release Date: December 30, 2008 [EBook #27665]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JUNIOR ACHIEVEMENT ***
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_Fallout is, of course, always disastrous--
one way or another_
_JUNIOR ACHIEVEMENT_
_BY WILLIAM LEE_
ILLUSTRATED BY SCHOENHERR
[Illustration]
"What would you think," I asked Marjorie over supper, "if I should
undertake to lead a junior achievement group this summer?"
She pondered it while she went to the kitchen to bring in the dessert.
It was dried apricot pie, and very tasty, I might add.
"Why, Donald," she said, "it could be quite interesting, if I understand
what a junior achievement group is. What gave you the idea?"
"It wasn't my idea, really," I admitted. "Mr. McCormack called me to the
office today, and told me that some of the children in the lower grades
wanted to start one. They need adult guidance of course, and one of the
group suggested my name."
I should explain, perhaps, that I teach a course in general science in
our Ridgeville Junior High School, and another in general physics in the
Senior High School. It's a privilege which I'm sure many educators must
envy, teaching in Ridgeville, for our new school is a fine one, and our
academic standards are high. On the other hand, the fathers of most of
my students work for the Commission and a constant awareness of the
Commission and its work pervades the town. It is an uneasy privilege
then, at least sometimes, to teach my old-fashioned brand of science to
these children of a new age.
"That's very nice," said Marjorie. "What does a junior achievement group
do?"
"It has the purpose," I told her, "of teaching the members something
about commerce and industry. They manufacture simple compositions like
polishing waxes and sell them from door-to-door. Some groups have built
up tidy little bank accounts which are available for later educational
expenses."
"Gracious, you wouldn't have to sell from door-to-door, would you?"
"Of course not. I'd just tell the kids how to do it."
Marjorie put back her head and laughed, and I was forced to join her,
for we both recognize that my understanding and "feel" for commercial
matters--if I may use that expression--is almost nonexistent.
"Oh, all right," I said, "laugh at my commercial aspirations. But don't
worry about it, really. Mr. McCormack said we could get Mr. Wells from
Commercial Department to help out if he was needed. There is one
problem, though. Mr. McCormack is going to put up fifty dollars to buy
any raw materials wanted and he rather suggested that I might advance
another fifty. The question is, could we do it?"
Marjorie did mental arithmetic. "Yes," she said, "yes, if it's something
you'd like to do."
We've had to watch such things rather closely for the last ten--no,
eleven years. Back in the old Ridgeville, fifty-odd miles to the south,
we had our home almost paid for, when the accident occurred. It was in
the path of the heaviest fallout, and we couldn't have kept on living
there even if the town had stayed. When Ridgeville moved to its present
site, so, of course, did we, which meant starting mortgage payments all
over again.
* * * * *
Thus it was that on a Wednesday morning about three weeks later, I was
sitting at one end of a plank picnic table with five boys and girls
lined up along the sides. This was to be our headquarters and factory
for the summer--a roomy unused barn belonging to the parents of one of
the group members, Tommy Miller.
"O.K.," I said, "let's relax. You don't need to treat me as a teacher,
you know. I stopped being a school teacher when the final grades went in
last Friday. I'm on vacation now. My job here is only to advise, and I'm
going to do that as little as possible. You're going to decide what to
do, and if it's safe and legal and possible to do with the starting
capital we have, I'll go along with it and help in any way I can. This
is your meeting."
Mr. McCormack had told me, and in some detail, about the youngsters I'd
be dealing with. The three who were sitting to my left were the ones who
had proposed the group in the first place.
Doris Enright was a grave young lady of ten years, who might, I thought,
be quite a beauty in a few more years, but was at the moment rather
angular--all shoulders and elbows. Peter Cope, Jr. and Hilary Matlack
were skinny kids, too. The three were of an age and were all tall for
ten-year-olds.
I had the impression during that first meeting that they looked rather
alike, but this wasn't so. Their features were quite different. Perhaps
from association, for they were close friends, they had just come to
have a certain similarity of restrained gesture and of modulated voice.
And they were all tanned by sun and wind to a degree that made their
eyes seem light and their teeth startlingly white.
The two on my right were cast in a different mold. Mary McCready was a
big husky redhead of twelve, with a face full of freckles and an
infectious laugh, and Tommy Miller, a few months younger, was just an
average, extroverted, well adjusted youngster, noisy and restless,
tee-shirted and butch-barbered.
The group exchanged looks to see who would lead off, and Peter Cope
seemed to be elected.
"Well, Mr. Henderson, a junior achievement group is a bunch of kids who
get together to manufacture and sell things, and maybe make some money."
"Is that what you want to do," I asked, "make money?"
"Why not?" Tommy asked. "There's something wrong with making money?"
"Well, sure, I suppose we want to," said Hilary. "We'll need some money
to do the things we want to do later."
"And what sort of things would you like to make and sell?" I asked.
The usual products, of course, with these junior achievement efforts,
are chemical specialties that can be made safely and that people will
buy and use without misgivings--solvent to free up rusty bolts, cleaner
to remove road tar, mechanic's hand soap--that sort of thing. Mr.
McCormack had told me, though, that I might find these youngsters a bit
more ambitious. "The Miller boy and Mary McCready," he had said, "have
exceptionally high IQ's--around one forty or one fifty. The other three
are hard to classify. They have some of the attributes of exceptional
pupils, but much of the time they seem to have little interest in their
studies. The junior achievement idea has sparked their imaginations.
Maybe it'll be just what they need."
Mary said, "Why don't we make a freckle remover? I'd be our first
customer."
* * *
"The thing to do," Tommy offered, "is to figure out what people in
Ridgeville want to buy, then sell it to them."
"I'd like to make something by powder metallurgy techniques," said Pete.
He fixed me with a challenging eye. "You should be able to make ball
bearings by molding, then densify them by electroplating."
"And all we'd need is a hydraulic press," I told him, "which, on a
guess, might cost ten thousand dollars. Let's think of something
easier."
Pete mulled it over and nodded reluctantly. "Then maybe something in the
electronics field. A hi-fi sub-assembly of some kind."
"How about a new detergent?" Hilary put in.
"Like the liquid dishwashing detergents?" I asked.
He was scornful. "No, they're formulations--you know, mixtures. That's
cookbook chemistry. I mean a brand new synthetic detergent. I've got an
idea for one that ought to be good even in the hard water we've got
around here."
"Well, now," I said, "organic synthesis sounds like another operation
calling for capital investment. If we should keep the achievement group
going for several summers, it might be possible later on to carry out a
safe synthesis of some sort. You're Dr. Matlack's son, aren't you? Been
dipping into your father's library?"
"Some," said Hilary, "and I've got a home laboratory."
"How about you, Doris?" I prompted. "Do you have a special field of
interest?"
"No." She shook her head in mock despondency. "I'm not very technical.
Just sort of miscellaneous. But if the group wanted to raise some mice,
I'd be willing to turn over a project I've had going at home."
"You could sell mice?" Tommy demanded incredulously.
"Mice," I echoed, then sat back and thought about it. "Are they a pure
strain? One of the recognized laboratory strains? Healthy mice of the
right strain," I explained to Tommy, "might be sold to laboratories. I
have an idea the Commission buys a supply every month."
"No," said Doris, "these aren't laboratory mice. They're fancy ones. I
got the first four pairs from a pet shop in Denver, but they're
red--sort of chipmunk color, you know. I've carried them through
seventeen generations of careful selection."
"Well, now," I admitted, "the market for red mice might be rather
limited. Why don't you consider making an after-shave lotion? Denatured
alcohol, glycerine, water, a little color and perfume. You could buy
some bottles and have some labels printed. You'd be in business before
you knew it."
There was a pause, then Tommy inquired, "How do you sell it?"
"Door-to-door."
He made a face. "Never build up any volume. Unless it did something
extra. You say we'd put color in it. How about enough color to leave
your face looking tanned. Men won't use cosmetics and junk, but if they
didn't have to admit it, they might like the shave lotion."
Hilary had been deep in thought. He said suddenly, "Gosh, I think I know
how to make a--what do you want to call it--a before-shave lotion."
"What would that be?" I asked.
"You'd use it before you shaved."
"I suppose there might be people who'd prefer to use it beforehand," I
conceded.
"There will be people," he said darkly, and subsided.
Mrs. Miller came out to the barn after a while, bringing a bucket of
soft drinks and ice, a couple of loaves of bread and ingredients for a
variety of sandwiches. The parents had agreed to underwrite lunches at
the barn and Betty Miller philosophically assumed the role of
commissary officer. She paused only to say hello and to ask how we were
progressing with our organization meeting.
I'd forgotten all about organization, and that, according to all the
articles I had perused, is most important to such groups. It's standard
practice for every member of the group to be a company officer. Of
course a young boy who doesn't know any better, may wind up a sales
manager.
Over the sandwiches, then, I suggested nominating company officers, but
they seemed not to be interested. Peter Cope waved it off by remarking
that they'd each do what came naturally. On the other hand, they
pondered at some length about a name for the organization, without
reaching any conclusions, so we returned to the problem of what to make.
It was Mary, finally, who advanced the thought of kites. At first there
was little enthusiasm, then Peter said, "You know, we could work up
something new. Has anybody ever seen a kite made like a wind sock?"
Nobody had. Pete drew figures in the air with his hands. "How about the
hole at the small end?"
"I'll make one tonight," said Doris, "and think about the small end.
It'll work out all right."
I wished that the youngsters weren't starting out by inventing a new
article to manufacture, and risking an almost certain disappointment,
but to hold my guidance to the minimum, I said nothing, knowing that
later I could help them redesign it along standard lines.
* * * * *
At supper I reviewed the day's happenings with Marjorie and tried to
recall all of the ideas which had been propounded. Most of them were
impractical, of course, for a group of children to attempt, but several
of them appeared quite attractive.
Tommy, for example, wanted to put tooth powder into tablets that one
would chew before brushing the teeth. He thought there should be two
colors in the same bottle--orange for morning and blue for night, the
blue ones designed to leave the mouth alkaline at bed time.
Pete wanted to make a combination nail and wood screw. You'd drive it in
with a hammer up to the threaded part, then send it home with a few
turns of a screwdriver.
Hilary, reluctantly forsaking his ideas on detergents, suggested we make
black plastic discs, like poker chips but thinner and as cheap as
possible, to scatter on a snowy sidewalk where they would pick up extra
heat from the sun and melt the snow more rapidly. Afterward one would
sweep up and collect the discs.
Doris added to this that if you could make the discs light enough to
float, they might be colored white and spread on the surface of a
reservoir to reduce evaporation.
These latter ideas had made unknowing use of some basic physics, and I'm
afraid I relapsed for a few minutes into the role of teacher and told
them a little bit about the laws of radiation and absorption of heat.
"My," said Marjorie, "they're really smart boys and girls. Tommy Miller
does sound like a born salesman. Somehow I don't think you're going to
have to call in Mr. Wells."
I do feel just a little embarrassed about the kite, even now. The fact
that it flew surprised me. That it flew so confoundedly well was
humiliating. Four of them were at the barn when I arrived next morning;
or rather on the rise of ground just beyond it, and the kite hung
motionless and almost out of sight in the pale sky. I stood and watched
for a moment, then they saw me.
"Hello, Mr. Henderson," Mary said, and proffered the cord which was
wound on a fishing reel. I played the kite up and down for a few
minutes, then reeled it in. It was, almost exactly, a wind sock, but the
hole at the small end was shaped--by wire--into the general form of a
kidney bean. It was beautifully made, and had a sort of professional
look about it.
"It flies too well," Mary told Doris. "A kite ought to get caught in a
tree sometimes."
"You're right," Doris agreed. "Let's see it." She gave the wire at the
small end the slightest of twists. "There, it ought to swoop."
Sure enough, in the moderate breeze of that morning, the kite swooped
and yawed to Mary's entire satisfaction. As we trailed back to the barn
I asked Doris, "How did you know that flattening the lower edge of the
hole would create instability?" She looked doubtful.
"Why it would have to, wouldn't it? It changed the pattern of air
pressures." She glanced at me quickly. "Of course, I tried a lot of
different shapes while I was making it."
"Naturally," I said, and let it go at that. "Where's Tommy?"
"He stopped off at the bank," Pete Cope told me, "to borrow some money.
We'll want to buy materials to make some of these kites."
"But I said yesterday that Mr. McCormack and I were going to advance
some cash to get started."
"Oh, sure, but don't you think it would be better to borrow from a bank?
More businesslike?"
"Doubtless," I said, "but banks generally want some security." I would
have gone on and explained matters further, except that Tommy walked in
and handed me a pocket check book.
"I got two hundred and fifty," he volunteered--not without a hint of
complacency in his voice. "It didn't take long, but they sure made it
out a big deal. Half the guys in the bank had to be called in to listen
to the proposition. The account's in your name, Mr. Henderson, and
you'll have to make out the checks. And they want you to stop in at the
bank and give them a specimen signature. Oh, yes, and cosign the note."
My heart sank. I'd never had any dealings with banks except in the
matter of mortgages, and bank people make me most uneasy. To say nothing
of finding myself responsible for a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar
note--over two weeks salary. I made a mental vow to sign very few
checks.
"So then I stopped by at Apex Stationers," Tommy went on, "and ordered
some paper and envelopes. We hadn't picked a name yesterday, but I
figured what's to lose, and picked one. Ridge Industries, how's that?"
Everybody nodded.
"Just three lines on the letterhead," he explained. "Ridge
Industries--Ridgeville--Montana."
I got my voice back and said, "Engraved, I trust."
"Well, sure," he replied. "You can't afford to look chintzy."
* * *
My appetite was not at its best that evening, and Marjorie recognized
that something was concerning me, but she asked no questions, and I only
told her about the success of the kite, and the youngsters embarking on
a shopping trip for paper, glue and wood splints. There was no use in
both of us worrying.
On Friday we all got down to work, and presently had a regular
production line under way; stapling the wood splints, then wetting them
with a resin solution and shaping them over a mandrel to stiffen,
cutting the plastic film around a pattern, assembling and hanging the
finished kites from an overhead beam until the cement had set. Pete Cope
had located a big roll of red plastic film from somewhere, and it made a
wonderful-looking kite. Happily, I didn't know what the film cost until
the first kites were sold.
By Wednesday of the following week we had almost three hundred kites
finished and packed into flat cardboard boxes, and frankly I didn't
care if I never saw another. Tommy, who by mutual consent, was our
authority on sales, didn't want to sell any until we had, as he put it,
enough to meet the demand, but this quantity seemed to satisfy him. He
said he would sell them the next week and Mary McCready, with a fine
burst of confidence, asked him in all seriousness to be sure to hold out
a dozen.
Three other things occurred that day, two of which I knew about
immediately. Mary brought a portable typewriter from home and spent part
of the afternoon banging away at what seemed to me, since I use two
fingers only, a very creditable speed.
And Hilary brought in a bottle of his new detergent. It was a syrupy
yellow liquid with a nice collar of suds. He'd been busy in his home
laboratory after all, it seemed.
"What is it?" I asked. "You never told us."
Hilary grinned. "Lauryl benzyl phosphonic acid, dipotassium salt, in 20%
solution."
"Goodness." I protested, "it's been twenty-five years since my last
course in chemistry. Perhaps if I saw the formula--."
He gave me a singularly adult smile and jotted down a scrawl of symbols
and lines. It meant little to me.
"Is it good?"
For answer he seized the ice bucket, now empty of its soda bottles,
trickled in a few drops from the bottle and swished the contents. Foam
mounted to the rim and spilled over. "And that's our best grade of
Ridgeville water," he pointed out. "Hardest in the country."
The third event of Wednesday came to my ears on Thursday morning.
I was a little late arriving at the barn, and was taken a bit aback to
find the roadway leading to it rather full of parked automobiles, and
the barn itself rather full of people, including two policemen. Our
Ridgeville police are quite young men, but in uniform they still look
ominous and I was relieved to see that they were laughing and evidently
enjoying themselves.
"Well, now," I demanded, in my best classroom voice. "What is all this?"
"Are you Henderson?" the larger policeman asked.
"I am indeed," I said, and a flash bulb went off. A young lady grasped
my arm.
"Oh, please, Mr. Henderson, come outside where it's quieter and tell me
all about it."
"Perhaps," I countered, "somebody should tell me."
"You mean you don't know, honestly? Oh, it's fabulous. Best story I've
had for ages. It'll make the city papers." She led me around the corner
of the barn to a spot of comparative quiet.
"You didn't know that one of your junior whatsisnames poured detergent
in the Memorial Fountain basin last night?"
I shook my head numbly.
"It was priceless. Just before rush hour. Suds built up in the basin
and overflowed, and down the library steps and covered the whole street.
And the funniest part was they kept right on coming. You couldn't
imagine so much suds coming from that little pool of water. There was a
three-block traffic jam and Harry got us some marvelous pictures--men
rolling up their trousers to wade across the street. And this morning,"
she chortled, "somebody phoned in an anonymous tip to the police--of
course it was the same boy that did it--Tommy--Miller?--and so here we
are. And we just saw a demonstration of that fabulous kite and saw all
those simply captivating mice."
"Mice?"
"Yes, of course. Who would ever have thought you could breed mice with
those cute furry tails?"
* * *
Well, after a while things quieted down. They had to. The police left
after sobering up long enough to give me a serious warning against
letting such a thing happen again. Mr. Miller, who had come home to see
what all the excitement was, went back to work and Mrs. Miller went back
to the house and the reporter and photographer drifted off to file their
story, or whatever it is they do. Tommy was jubilant.
"Did you hear what she said? It'll make the city papers. I wish we had a
thousand kites. Ten thousand. Oh boy, selling is fun. Hilary, when can
you make some more of that stuff? And Doris, how many mice do you
have?"
Those mice! I have always kept my enthusiasm for rodents within bounds,
but I must admit they were charming little beasts, with tails as bushy
as miniature squirrels.
"How many generations?" I asked Doris.
"Seventeen. No, eighteen, now. Want to see the genetic charts?"
I won't try to explain it as she did to me, but it was quite evident
that the new mice were breeding true. Presently we asked Betty Miller to
come back down to the barn for a conference. She listened and asked
questions. At last she said, "Well, all right, if you promise me they
can't get out of their cages. But heaven knows what you'll do when fall
comes. They won't live in an unheated barn and you can't bring them into
the house."
"We'll be out of the mouse business by then," Doris predicted. "Every
pet shop in the country will have them and they'll be down to nothing
apiece."
Doris was right, of course, in spite of our efforts to protect the
market. Anyhow that ushered in our cage building phase, and for the next
week--with a few interruptions--we built cages, hundreds of them, a good
many for breeding, but mostly for shipping.
It was rather regrettable that, after the _Courier_ gave us most of the
third page, including photographs, we rarely had a day without a few
visitors. Many of them wanted to buy mice or kites, but Tommy refused to
sell any mice at retail and we soon had to disappoint those who wanted
kites. The Supermarket took all we had--except a dozen--and at a dollar
fifty each. Tommy's ideas of pricing rather frightened me, but he set
the value of the mice at ten dollars a pair and got it without any
arguments.
Our beautiful stationery arrived, and we had some invoice forms printed
up in a hurry--not engraved, for a wonder.
It was on Tuesday--following the Thursday--that a lanky young man
disentangled himself from his car and strolled into the barn. I looked
up from the floor where I was tacking squares of screening onto wooden
frames.
"Hi," he said. "You're Donald Henderson, right? My name is McCord--Jeff
McCord--and I work in the Patent Section at the Commission's downtown
office. My boss sent me over here, but if he hadn't, I think I'd have
come anyway. What are you doing to get patent protection on Ridge
Industries' new developments?"
I got my back unkinked and dusted off my knees. "Well, now," I said,
"I've been wondering whether something shouldn't be done, but I know
very little about such matters--."
"Exactly," he broke in, "we guessed that might be the case, and there
are three patent men in our office who'd like to chip in and contribute
some time. Partly for the kicks and partly because we think you may have
some things worth protecting. How about it? You worry about the filing
and final fees. That's sixty bucks per brainstorm. We'll worry about
everything else."
"What's to lose," Tommy interjected.
And so we acquired a patent attorney, several of them, in fact.
The day that our application on the kite design went to Washington, Mary
wrote a dozen toy manufacturers scattered from New York to Los Angeles,
sent a kite to each one and offered to license the design. Result, one
licensee with a thousand dollar advance against next season's royalties.
* * * * *
It was a rainy morning about three weeks later that I arrived at the
barn. Jeff McCord was there, and the whole team except Tommy. Jeff
lowered his feet from the picnic table and said, "Hi."
"Hi yourself," I told him. "You look pleased."
"I am," he replied, "in a cautious legal sense, of course. Hilary and I
were just going over the situation on his phosphonate detergent. I've
spent the last three nights studying the patent literature and a few
standard texts touching on phosphonates. There are a zillion patents on
synthetic detergents and a good round fifty on phosphonates, but it
looks"--he held up a long admonitory hand--"it just looks as though we
had a clear spot. If we do get protection, you've got a real salable
property."
"That's fine, Mr. McCord," Hilary said, "but it's not very important."
"No?" Jeff tilted an inquiring eyebrow at me, and I handed him a small
bottle. He opened and sniffed at it gingerly. "What gives?"
"Before-shave lotion," Hilary told him. "You've shaved this morning, but
try some anyway."
Jeff looked momentarily dubious, then puddled some in his palm and
moistened his jaw line. "Smells good," he noted, "and feels nice and
cool. Now what?"
"Wipe your face." Jeff located a handkerchief and wiped, looked at the
cloth, wiped again, and stared.
"What is it?"
"A whisker stiffener. It makes each hair brittle enough to break off
right at the surface of your skin."
"So I perceive. What is it?"
"Oh, just a mixture of stuff. Cookbook chemistry. Cysteine thiolactone
and a fat-soluble magnesium compound."
"I see. Just a mixture of stuff. And do your whiskers grow back the next
day?"
"Right on schedule," I said.
McCord unfolded his length and stood staring out into the rain.
Presently he said, "Henderson, Hilary and I are heading for my office.
We can work there better than here, and if we're going to break the
hearts of the razor industry, there's no better time to start than now."
When they had driven off I turned and said, "Let's talk a while. We can
always clean mouse cages later. Where's Tommy?"
"Oh, he stopped at the bank to get a loan."
"What on earth for? We have over six thousand in the account."
"Well," Peter said, looking a little embarrassed, "we were planning to
buy a hydraulic press. You see, Doris put some embroidery on that scheme
of mine for making ball bearings." He grabbed a sheet of paper. "Look,
we make a roller bearing, this shape only it's a permanent magnet. Then
you see--." And he was off.
"What did they do today, dear?" Marge asked as she refilled my coffee
cup.
"Thanks," I said. "Let's see, it was a big day. We picked out a
hydraulic press, Doris read us the first chapter of the book she's
starting, and we found a place over a garage on Fourth Street that we
can rent for winter quarters. Oh, yes, and Jeff is starting action to
get the company incorporated."
"Winter quarters," Marge repeated. "You mean you're going to try to keep
the group going after school starts?"
"Why not? The kids can sail through their courses without thinking about
them, and actually they won't put in more than a few hours a week during
the school year."
"Even so, it's child labor, isn't it?"
"Child labor nothing. They're the employers. Jeff McCord and I will be
the only employees--just at first, anyway."
Marge choked on something. "Did you say you'd be an employee?"
"Sure," I told her. "They've offered me a small share of the company,
and I'd be crazy to turn it down. After all, what's to lose?"
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Analog Science Fact & Fiction_ July
1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
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