A House by Any Other Name, page 1
A House by Any Other Name
L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
“George, we are on the Brink of a Recession!” announced James Boulin Chartwell, III.
George arranged his face to show concern. The Senior Member of the Council of Economic Advisers glowered.
“This is Serious, young man. There is a Major Metropolitan Area where employment and wages in the Construction Sector have actually declined in the last quarter.”
George refrained from asking if he were sure. The Honorable James Boulin Chartwell, III, was always SURE.
“What area?” inquired George politely.
“The Greater Denver Area.”
George understood. Denver was somewhere near the Rockies.
“Now admittedly, the Deviation from the National Trend is Not Yet Significant. But the level of employment for carpenters, electricians, masons, plumbers, and heating technicians is down One Tenth of One Percent. This is Inconceivable. The Denver Area is one of the most rapidly expanding markets in the country. More houses are being built, but construction workers are making less money. What will the Unions say? What will the President say?”
Chartwell’s voice, while not quite to the point of professorial panic, had lost the deep, firm, and convincing tone he employed to sway the policy makers.
“And… ?” prompted George.
“George, you will Look Into It. We must have The Answer before the Budget is Finalized.”
George struggled out of the deep leather armchair. He smiled at Mildred as he ambled out into the hall.
This time she refused to look at him. George suspected that it was the purple shirt and gold tie, rather than the maroon plaid jacket.
In his office, the other three staff economists were all at their desks. George had been on the staff two years. This was the first time he had seen them all together.
“Hey, Ed. What’s the big project?”
Ed—Theodore Hastings Freylinghausen—rolled his eyes. “The Recommended Executive Budget.
Balance of Payments. Special Drawing Rights. Proposed Variations in Variable Budgets…”
Ferron Riccardo didn’t look up. Norman Dentine flashed George a brief smile.
George shuffled behind his desk.
A decrease in employment coupled to an increase in housing starts? He started doodling on the scratch pad. After an hour he decided he didn’t know enough to doodle.
He walked over to the console scanned the print outs, then typed a few lines.
“Mary, whose program is on now?”
“That’s Mr. Riccardo’s. He’s trying to determine the role of inflexible wages in the modern economy, especially as a forecasting and budgetary tool.“
“Check. I’m next on line with a short cut on the Greater Denver Economic Unit.”
George walked over to the iron jawed Riccardo.
“Ferron, how much longer on this thing of yours?”
Riccardo peered at his Complexitron Wrist Chronometer. “
“About twenty six minutes and thirty one seconds.”
George wandered down to the cafeteria. At eleven the corridors were always deserted. He was back at his desk with two Cokes in twenty five minutes.
Somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty six and one half minutes, the console burped. George rescued his short print out before it was overwhelmed by what would follow.
The print out confirmed the summary of James Boulin Chartwell, III. George gulped the remainder of the first Coke. He nearly strangled, since he’d forgotten to pulverize the ice cubes. He thumbed through his directory.
He jabbed out a complicated code.
“National Association of Home builders.”
“This is Dr. George Graylin with the Council of Economic Advisers. I’d like the name and number of the president of the Denver Chapter.”
“If you’ll hold just a minute, Dr. Grayman, I’ft be right with you. Thank you.” Click. , George drummed out a facsimile of “Pomp and Circumstance” with his left hand.
“Dr. Grayland, the president of the Denver Chapter is Mortpn B. Newton. He’s also the president of Newton Construction. His office number is 303 2 757 1253. Is that all you need?”
“For now. Thank you very much.”
George drummed out a few bars of something whose title he couldn’t remember. He weighed the possibility of getting an open WAIT line to Denver through the Reservation Comm Center.
He punched out the number.
“Center. Will you hold, pu leasse?”
George drummed out “Listen to the Mockingbird.”
“Thank you for waiting. May I help you?”
“WAIT line, Denver. Priority, Rapid Routine. Code 444 B C.”
“I am sorry, sir, but there is a two hour hold on Wide Area Integral Teleview service.”
“Will you confirm that?”
“Yes, sir. Time is 11:42.”
“Thank you.”
As the picture of the harried operator vanished, George’s teleview screen belched a pink slip. He slipped it into a manila file titled For Mildred. She always questioned his expenses. George smiled.
Then he punched out a direct link.
“Newton Construction.”
“This is Dr. George Graylin with the Council of Economic Advisers. I’m calling from Washington. For Mr. Newton.”
“I’m sorry, sir. He’s on one line and has two calls holding.”
“Have him call me. My number is G E C 000 1 223 6767.”
“Could you repeat that, sir?”
“Certainly. G E C 000 1 223 6767.”
“G E C 000 1 223 6767?”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
George grinned. He picked up the second Coke, watered down as it was. The cup started to fold in his hand. He managed to get the whole soggy mess into the pulper without dribbling more than a few drops on his paper strewn desk or on his maroon jacket.
“Damn water soluble plastics! Damn barefoot conservationists!”
The viewer buzzed.
“Graylin here.”
“Dr. Graylin, this is Morton Newton in Denver. You called?”
“Yes. We’ve been reviewing the reports on the construction industry in the Denver area. What do you think of the situation?”
“Frankly, I don’t see how it could be better. Our starts are up, and the labor situation is beginning to ease. For a while it was damn hard to get people who wanted solid work.”
“We’re interested in how housing starts can be up while construction employment is down.“
“Oh, just the nature of the business. Construction’s a funny thing. Almost an art. It just doesn’t have any rules.”
“How about innovations?”
“Innovations?”
“New technology, building techniques…”
“We’re pretty set in our ways, Doctor. It’s hard to get carpenters or plumbers to change, you know.”
“Probably just a statistical fluke,” commented George. “It does happen. Once in a while. Sorry to bother you, Mr. Newton.” „ “No problem at all.”
“Thanks again.” George thumbed open the connection.
He riffled through the directory. Keypunched out another number.
“Dr. Woolford’s office.”
“George Graylin. Council of Economic Advisers. Hubert in?”
“One moment, please.”
“Woolford here.”
“George Graylin at the Council of Economic Advisers. I’ve run into an oddity Wondered if you fellows at Housing might be able to clarify.”
“Shoot, George.”
“Are you aware of new techniques in homebuilding in Metro Denver?”
“No, haven’t approved anything.”
“How about something you haven’t approved?”
“We turn down so many schemes to build the better, cheaper house…“
“And the normal reasons?” “Usually more expensive. Or impractical.”
“Any other reasons?”
“If it would cause a major restructuring of the labor market. What’s your interest?”
“Decrease in construction employment,” laughed George.
“See what I mean?” Hubert Woolford pulled at his long chin. “I’m sure that techniques we’ve turned down are feasible. You know, I know that solutions at the expense of employment are unwelcome.
What’s the real rate of unemployment now? Not the one you quote between four and five percent.”
“Twenty one percent, including adjusted underemployment. Reason?”
“Just curious. I remember when it was just five percent. Unadjusted or statistically manipulated.”
“Thanks anyway, Hubert. Let you know.”
“Would you?”
“Certainly. Talk to you later.”
George went back to the directory, this time to the addendum.
“Union Negotiating, Mr. Bargunn’s office.”
“This is George Graylin, Council of Economic Advisers. Mr. Bargunn there?”
“One moment.”
“Gus Bargunn. What can I do for you, George? You’re the only conservative economist left in Washington.“
“No politics, Gus., What’s the story in Denver?”
“Denver?” The tone was bland. Too bland.
“No reason… except we’ve got a few figures here about increasing unemployment in homebuilding. But housing starts are up, and increasing. Means less labor intensive techniques, I'd guess…”
Gus Bargunn smiled. “You know
“Cut the compliments, Gus.”
“Affirm. Houseman—he’s developed so called new methods, will eventually hit us, but right now, he’s non Union. Doesn’t exist.”
“Yet,” added George.
Gus dropped the labor management smile.
“Thanks again, Gus. Unofficially, if interested, James Boulin Chartwell, III, holds for you. Jobs, not technology.”
“Can I pass that on?”
“No, but you will anyway.” George grinned.
“George, ever think about Labor?”
“I’ll keep it in mind. If I need a job.”
George ambled down to the cafeteria and drank two more Cokes, to wash down the yeastburger.
A Memo was waiting when he returned.
“George: Have you any information on the Nature of The Problem? What is the danger of Incipient Recession?“ There was more. George threw it in the pulper He tapped out the intercom code of the Senior Adviser. ”Mildred. The Adviser in?“ ”Yes, Dr. Graylin.“” Mildred used “Doctor” in a tone of contempt. The other PhD’s were “Mister.”
James Boulin Chartwell, III, and his glass of One Hundred Percent Pure Mineral Water, appeared on the screen.
“George, what have you Discovered?”
“Enough to go to Denver.” “That’s the Spirit, George. Get to The Heart Of The Matter.”
==========
He made it through the Reservation Gate before the afternoon crush. He caught a cab without notice, keeping the hand in his pocket on the ultra beamer just in case.
He had to pay an extra ten dollars for the two trips around the quad while the police disposer unit digested an illegally parked car.
George packed a small bag, then changed to a plain dark gray suit, pale blue shirt, and black tie. He hoped he wasn’t too conspicuous.
The flight to Denver was uneventful. The passengers were knocked out once, in the middle of dinner, when a femrad tried to divert the plane to Sweden.
At Stapleton International, George waited an hour for the Denver Motor Pool to find his car.
Struggling with his newly acquired map and a perverse number of one way streets, he managed to find his hotel.
He set up the portable defense screen as soon as he entered his room, then dialled Houseman’s office number. There was no home viewer listed for the builder. He got the answering service. No picture.
“This is Dr. George Graylin with the Council of Economic Advisers in Washington. While I’m here, I’d like to meet personally with Mr. Houseman. Tell him I plan to drop by at ten. I’ll call at nine to confirm.”
“You’re Dr. Graylin, and you plan to see him at ten tomorrow. You’ll confirm at nine. Is that all, sir?”
“That’s it. Thanks.”
The click was the only indication that the faceless secretary was no longer behind the blank screen.
George threw the combosuiter on the bed and thumbed it open. He hung up the two suits, washed his face, combed his hair, and wandered down to the coffee shop. He had a Coke and a yeastburger at the counter. Thirteen other business types were slumped around, and the one waitress and the blank faced busboy jerked from table to table to counter.
George picked up a copy of The3, Denver Post on the way back to his room.
The portascreen was still buzzing happily. George double locked the door and sandwiched the desk chair under the knob. He tossed the dark gray suit into the laundry section of the combosuiter, then dumped it onto the floor. He stretched out on the bed with the paper. After three pages he felt sleepy.
He woke at eight, the bedside light glaring into his face.
There was enough time to shower, shave, and dress.
He ambled down to the coffee shop for a Coke and a cinnayeast. George finished in time to call Houseman’s office at five past nine. Ten was fine with Mr. Houseman.
The junior staff economist to the Senior Member of The Council of Economic Advisers managed to mangle the city map and his digestion in finding the builder’s office. He arrived at ten ten.
George took three deep breaths before going in.
“May I help you?” Her voice was pleasant. George admired the modified Afro.
“Yes. George Graylin from the Council of Economic Advisers. I have a ten o’clock appointment.”
“Go right on in. He’ll be with you in a minute.”
George sat down in a black leather and chrome chair. The office was spartan. There was an engineering diploma to Theron Oliver Houseman on one side wall. George could see why Houseman used his initials.
“Dr. Graylin?” Houseman was short, wiry, and black. His hair was clipped. Other than the long side burns, he was clean shaven.
“George, just George, Mr, Houseman.”
“Call me Tod. I’m just a carpenter with a degree. What do you have in’mind?”
“I really don’t know, exactly. Somehow, an economic phenomenon we’re investigating seems to be connected… oh, hell, there I go getting tied up in the language again.”
“Briefly, your project seems to have something to do with an increased number of Housing Starts in the Denver area as well as an increased unemployment rate.” George felt that he shouldn’t have to step lightly, but… feeling wasn’t always correct.
Tod Houseman surveyed George. Then he laughed, explosively.
“You take some straight talk, George?”
George grinned, partly in relief.
“It’s a roundabout way, but I’d like to tell you how I got started in this business. I meant it when I said I was a carpenter with a degree. I broke into the Union when they started the Philadelphia plan here. After the plan flopped, I decided to stay in the building business. I got the degree at night. Went from framer to framing contractor to builder. After the experience with the Philadelphia plan, I went non Union all the way. For obvious reasons. The Union bigots didn’t want me—not on my terms. And later, I didn’t want them.
“I could build a better, cheaper house without all their rules. Since there are a bunch of non white builders around they couldn’t make it too hard on any one of us.”
Tod Houseman forced a smile. . “It’s still harder than hell not to be bitter. I keep telling myself that bitterness doesn’t help.”
“You were going to say how all this got started,” interjected George.
“Right. I used to build houses in the old style. One day I was going over my cost sheets. The cheapest part of building the house was the frame and the foundation. The two most expensive items are labor and lumber. Labor for plumbing, dry walling, electrical and heating installations, tile, trimming… you get the picture.”
“Hm m m,” commented George.
“So I thought, why not do a whole house at the framing stage, and use something besides lumber. And that’s what I’m doing.” Houseman gave an easy smile.
“The idea sounds great. But how do you make your profits? A lot of builders have tried the pre fab route and lost their shirts.” George wanted a Coke.
“The product is simple. I’ll start with that. I work a modular room system. The prefinished rooms are delivered to the site. Then we bolt them together, stick on our precast roof and, siding and we’re.
finished.“ His smile turned into a grin. ”It’s working pretty well.“
“Hold on. Where do you get these rooms, and roofs, and uh… siding? You have a factory?”
“Good a term as any. Actually a fat airbubble, portable, with one giant loading airlock. I have three semis with fold down sides that hold the epoxy casting machinery. I drive to the area I’m developing, set up the semis, blow up my balloon, and go to work.”
George was lost. He tried again.
“But you must have huge costs. All the molds, and the plumbing and the wiring…”
“We got that figured out early. Houses have basically only three kinds of rooms. Big ones, middle sized ones, and little ones with plumbing. We have two sizes of each. The living room can be a dining room, or a family room, or a master bedroom, or a double garage. The pullman kitchen can be a bathroom, a laundry room, or a storage room. We mix and match to suit your budget and your taste.” He gave a toothy grin.
“But the trade costs? I had to, call a plumber once, when my sister visited me with a baby and diapers, and he charged me a smalls fortune.”
“That’s the beauty of it. Each room is cast with all the electrical! gizmos, heating and plumbing in stalled.”
“How do you accomplish that?”
