The Goal

139

Output = 90 pcs.

"Every time Pete's area got behind, it was passed on to the robot," I say. "But when Pete delivered 28 pieces, the robot could still only do twenty-five. That meant that when the final delivery of thirty-two pieces arrived at four o'clock, the robot still had three pieces to work on from the last batch. So it couldn't start on the final batch right away."

"Okay, I see now," says Bob.

Fred says, "You know, the most Pete was ever behind was ten pieces. Kind of funny how that's exactly the number of pieces we ended up short."

"That's the effect of the mathematical principle I was trying to explain this morning," I say. "The maximum deviation of a preceding operation will become the starting point of a subse- quent operation."

Bob reaches for his wallet.

"Well, I guess I owe you ten bucks," he says to me.

"Tell you what," I say. "Instead of paying me, why don't you give the money to Pete so he can spring for a round of coffee or something for the people in his department-just a little way to say thanks for the extra effort this afternoon."

"Yeah, right, that's a good idea," says Bob. "Listen, sorry we couldn't ship today. Hope it doesn't get us in trouble."

"We can't worry about it now," I tell him. "The gain we made today is that we learned something. But I'll tell you one thing: we've got to take a close look at our incentives here."

"How come?" asks Bob.

"Don't you see? It didn't matter that Pete got his hundred pieces done, because we still couldn't ship," I say. "But Pete and his people thought they were heroes. Ordinarily, we might have thought the same thing. That isn't right."

When I get home that evening, both of the kids greet me at the door. My mother is in the background, with steam pouring out of the kitchen. I presume it has something to do with dinner and that she has everything under control. In front of me, Sharon's face is beaming up at me.

"Guess what!" she says.

"I give up," I say.

"Mommy called on the phone," Sharon says.

"She did!" I say.

I glance up at my mother. She shakes her head.

"Davey answered the phone," she says. "I didn't talk to her."

I look down at Sharon. "So what did Mommy say?"

"She said she loved Davey and me," says Sharon.

"And she said she would be away for a while," adds Davey. "But that we shouldn't worry about her."

"Did she say when she would be coming back?" I ask.

"I asked her that," says Davey. "But she said she couldn't say right now."

"Did you get a phone number so I can call her back?" I ask him.

He looks down at the floor.

"David! You were supposed to ask her for the number if she called!"

He mumbles, "I did, but... she didn't want to give it to me."

"Oh," I say.

"Sorry, Dad."

"It's okay, Dave. Thanks for trying."

"Why don't we all sit down to dinner," my mother says cheerily.

This time the meal is not silent. My mother talks, and she does her best to cheer us up. She tells us stories about the Depres- sion and how lucky we are to have food to eat.

Tuesday morning is a little bit more normal. Joining efforts, my mother and I manage to get the kids to school and me to