Administration by Chart
While he was preparing for his return, Lee Ki-jo had a miserable time hunting down government records from the 1950s and 1960s.
There was so little to be found that statistics, policy papers, and after-action reviews were simply not to be had. Hard times or not, it was difficult to believe civil servants had executed policy without ever surveying the facts, or had left no record behind. Something was wrong.
When he later learned why the files were missing, he could not suppress a dry laugh.
Some twenty years of records had vanished for two reasons.
The first was the soldiers' orders after the May 16 military coup. Paper was scarce in the 1960s, and a great nationwide scrap drive was launched to replace imported stock and to turn waste paper into recycled pulp. Government offices were no exception. They had to fill the quotas the soldiers handed down, and once officials who had been clutching important files were dressed down for it, they threw up their hands and tossed those documents into the scrap bins as well. The government records created in the 1950s disappeared that way.
The second was administration by chart.
From the 1960s through the 1970s, a chart boom swept the bureaucracy. Reporting to the soldiers who now occupied the senior posts, civil servants borrowed heavily from military habit. The soldiers hated thick reports crawling with tiny Chinese characters. They wanted something they could take in at a glance, and so the chart was introduced. When a division commander inspected his units, the line outfits prepared charts and flipped through them as they briefed him, and that method spread widely through the civil service.
The officials were pleased with it too. A chart reduced to a short explanation, a table, and a flowchart cut short the time it took to make a superior understand. In their hands the form kept evolving. Charts were standardized, and in time they were even produced at the size of a sketchbook. These were called mini-charts, and the men upstairs liked them, because a superior could carry one home, riffle through it, and grasp and review the work with ease.
The craze produced an unexpected side effect. In place of approving an official document, a new practice was born: approval by chart. Charts were drawn up, signed off, and, once their use was done, stored in the archives—but even the smallest of them was bulkier than an ordinary file. When the stored mini-charts, with the passing years, packed the stacks full, people took to burning them. Unlike official papers, which felt as though they ought never to be discarded no matter how much time went by, a chart somehow seemed easy to throw away. For that reason a great mass of the 1960s record disappeared.
Ki-jo turned those stories around and took a hint from them. When he explained the venture to officials of the Ministry of Transportation and the Ministry of Commerce and Industry, he would do it with charts and mini-charts. The method had worked in the original history. There was a good chance it would work again.
In truth, the chart itself was not a bad thing. It had first come into fashion in the U.S. Army. The military that grew, during the Second World War, into the largest organization in America had to handle logistics and administration on a scale beyond even the great American corporations. The disciplines of business and public administration were brought into the service, and efficiency followed. In a war where decisions had to be fast, officers obliged to deliver enormous volumes of reports, and generals who had to grasp policy and conditions at speed, created the demand that put intuitive charts in vogue.
The Korean military adopted them under American influence. Soldiers who had studied in the United States were especially quick to use them. Given the circumstances of the 1950s and 1960s, the chart was not a bad method—much as, in a later age, the vogue for PowerPoint set presentations by slide sweeping through companies and government offices alike.
Before he held his briefing, Ki-jo brought a sign painter down from Dongducheon and had him produce a large chart and a number of mini-charts. One painter could not turn out all that material alone, so he brought in scriveners from a public letter-writer's shop—a place that, for a fee, wrote documents for those who could not—and students from an art college to assist him. He lavished care on the charts and prepared the presentation of the tungsten-ore export plan Cheongsan meant to carry out.
As it happened, Commerce and Industry and Transportation both notified him that the briefings were to be held on the same day.
The Commerce and Industry session was held in the morning. The Director of the Mining Bureau was in the room. At a signal from Ki-jo, pointer in hand, Seong Dae-ik flipped the large chart over.
"First, allow me to explain Cheongsan's paid-in capital and the standing of AMKO Tungsten."
Two companies with no history had only one thing to boast of: money. The officials glanced between the mini-charts set out before them and the presentation, and paid attention.
"Next, we have rendered the international tungsten-ore price as a table and a graph."
Ki-jo had put into the chart the international quotations he had received from Roberts.
"The price is consolidating after a rise of thirty to thirty-three dollars a ton. It eased briefly, but buying supported by real demand is carrying it back into an upward trend."
The director was satisfied to see the latest international quotations—figures his own people had not yet obtained. He had reason to be. With Frank's help, Ki-jo had pulled the prices of the London Metal Exchange and the Chicago Board of Trade by telex through the U.S. Embassy.
"Could you provide the price data to the Mining Bureau? It would be better if we had older figures as well."
"Yes. I can send you the quotations from 1900 onward."
"You can assemble fifty years of data?"
"Of course."
The director was thoroughly pleased. Until then the officials had depended on materials the Japanese had left behind. Offered precious Western data, they could hardly help being glad.
"And this next item is evidence that tungsten demand in the United States is increasing."
Ki-jo tapped the sheet drawn with tanks and every manner of shell, and went on.
"Since the Korean War, the American defense industry has been moving away from the doctrine that nuclear weapons can answer everything, and toward strengthening conventional forces. The Soviet Union has lately mass-produced a new tank, and the U.S. Army is developing a new armor-piercing round to kill it. The principal material of that round is tungsten."
He explained without a hitch, and the Commerce and Industry officials murmured among themselves.
"Who is this man?"
"Seems to have a line on overseas intelligence, doesn't he?"
"They say he's in a joint venture with an American company."
Ki-jo registered the reaction and pressed on, confident.
"Demand for tungsten is formidable not only in the military but on the civilian side as well. The American economy is booming, and through the Marshall Plan the United States is pouring enormous funds into Europe in order to build up the industry of the West, so the tungsten that goes into tools and machinery..."
The officials stayed with him through the whole briefing. The pictures and diagrams he had put on the charts kept hauling their attention along. When he finished, one official, moved, started to applaud—then caught the eyes around him and thought better of it.
The director cleared his throat and put a question to him.
"Are you aware that the Korea–U.S. tungsten export agreement expired at the end of March this year?"
"I am."
"The way is now open for Korean tungsten, which America had monopolized, to be sold to the world. Not long ago this ministry drafted a bill for the free export of tungsten ore, and it passed the National Assembly."
"I'm aware of that as well."
"Then we ought to shop it among the countries of the free world, raise the export price, and sell. Why should we hand an exclusive to an American company?"
It was the question he had been waiting for. He signaled Dae-ik to turn the chart.
"Allow me to answer the Director's question."
The page turned, and a conceptual diagram of a chemical processing plant for the ore appeared.
"This is the chemical processing plant AMKO will provide to Korea."
"What kind of chemical processing?"
"Until now the ore has been crushed mechanically and the tungsten picked out of it. This process uses chemicals to extract the tungsten alone. It draws more metal from the ore, raises the efficiency of the mining, and lets us command a higher price."
The director nodded.
"You're saying AMKO will build that facility in Korea?"
"Yes. After twenty years of use, they say it can be contributed to the Korean government."
The director copied the words into his notebook.
"And is there anything else?"
"Let me explain why dealing with AMKO is to your advantage. The international price of tungsten ore is set without regard to the quality of the ore that comes out of Korea's Sangdong Mine."
"And so?"
"Sangdong ore carries a higher tungsten content than ore from other countries, but the international quotation reflects the price of comparatively low-grade ore. Trade on that basis, and we lose."
"Hm. Dealing at the LME or CBOT price works against us?"
"Yes. What's more, once the chemical plant in Korea is finished, AMKO intends to buy only the tungsten extracted from the ore, matched to the tungsten price inside the United States. The export unit price of the metal is, of course, higher than that of the ore."
The director nodded.
"Director, may I say a little more about why you should deal with AMKO?"
"Go on."
"Speaking realistically, among the nations of the free world there is at present no country besides the United States that can buy tungsten ore in quantity."
"Isn't there Japan?"
"Japan is close by, of course. But Japan has done nothing but try to beat down the price of Korean ore. Not only tungsten—every item produced in Korea, they knock the price down on one pretext or another. Japan will not buy our ore dear."
And that was in fact how it was. Perhaps because Korea had been their colony, the Japanese were peculiarly severe with Korean goods, forever demanding that the price come down further. It was the same with marine products and with scrap iron. Part of why they could do it was sheer nerve: If we don't buy, where else are you going to sell? There was no country nearby to which Korea could sell. China had gone communist. Trade with the Soviet Union and North Korea was out of the question. Southeast Asia was the nearest remaining market, but industry there had not developed, and there was no demand.
When Ki-jo answered in one unbroken flow, the director laughed, open and easy.
"Look here, President Lee Ki-jo. Any thought of coming into the Ministry? The way you explain a thing is remarkably tight."
When he laughed, the officials seated with him laughed along.
"I've heard you out. Hand those charts over to us. I'll have to explain this to the Minister with your charts."
"Of course. They're all yours."
The briefing for the Mining Bureau was a thorough success. Ki-jo shook the director's hand, greeted the working-level staff, and made his face known among them. Coming out of the bureau, he broke into a wide smile—accomplishment and relief together—and turned to Dae-ik.
"Dae-ik! Let's go get naengmyeon. Eat fast—we still have to make the Shipping Bureau!"
"Yes, sir!"
They drove the jeep to a cold-noodle house.
After lunch they went straight into the next appointment. With the Director of the Shipping Bureau in front of him, Ki-jo laid out the charts and explained why the Korea Shipping Corporation ought to charter the vessels of Cheongsan Shipping.
"Cheongsan Shipping is a sister company of Cheongsan Development, which currently holds more than thirty trucks, and it is strong in both overland and maritime carriage."
"Charter the ships to Korea Shipping, and you'll haul the tungsten dug at Yeongwol down to Busan. Is that it?"
"That's right."
"But Cheongsan Shipping has only the one ship. And not many seamen."
"Through the bank that backs AMKO, we have arranged to purchase two freighters of the same class as the Changseong."
"You're buying ships from a bank?"
"Yes. The form of it is that we take over vessels currently under mortgage in the Port of Los Angeles. We've agreed to pay the price in installments over twenty years, at five percent a year."
"Five percent a year? Does that make any sense? Is American interest that cheap?"
"Yes, it is. The United States is holding to a low-interest policy, to stimulate the domestic economy and to carry out the Marshall Plan. The American base rate is currently around two and a half percent."
The director had reason to be startled. Korean bank rates ran in the twenties.
"And the shortage of seamen at Cheongsan Shipping is solved if we conclude a semi-bareboat charter with Korea Shipping."
"Hm. So you'll turn the ships over to Korea Shipping and have their seamen sail them. Is that what you mean? With your own crew aboard as well?"
"That's correct."
The director nodded. They would bring in two more oceangoing freighters of twelve thousand tons—ships Korea did not have—charter them out, and take the overland haulage on themselves besides. As a freight forwarder, the qualifications were sufficient.
Even so, he was only half convinced. The greatest problem was how thin their record was as a shipping company. Business at sea always threw up sudden variables, and what answered them was experience. He also expected fierce resistance from Korea Shipping. Entrusting the work to Cheongsan seemed, on the whole, a good idea—and yet a few shortcomings still rankled.
"President Lee. Make me a final offer. One that won't let me refuse you."
At that, Ki-jo straightened his clothes. Then, grave, his expression somewhat dark, he spoke.
"I'm sorry to say this to you, Director, but I have no more attractive offer to make. I will mention only one point of concern."
"Let's hear it."
"Cheongsan has signed a package contract with AMKO in the United States. The import of Korean tungsten and its transport were agreed together, and if either one falls through, the contract is void."
"That's your company's affair, isn't it?"
"Yes. But if AMKO's offer—to donate a tungsten chemical processing plant through the Ministry of Commerce and Industry—receives final approval from His Excellency the President, a problem arises."
"What do you mean by that?"
"If the Ministry of Transportation withholds its backing and the contract collapses, the Ministry of Transportation will be the one left holding the blame."
"What? Are you threatening the government?"
"I apologize. I have only stated the facts. We photographed the contract signed with AMKO and attached the photographs to the mini-chart. Please have a look."
"This man...?"
While the director sat dumbfounded, the staff busily examined the photographs of the contract slipped into the mini-chart. The look that rose on their faces said it plainly: So he was telling the truth. One official leaned to the director's ear and whispered in a rush.
Unlike the Mining Bureau session, the mood in the Shipping Bureau briefing room was cold and heavy. That, however, was what Ki-jo had intended. To Commerce and Industry, which held the key to the ore exports, he had offered a carrot; at Transportation he had swung the stick, so as to induce the Shipping Bureau to fall in with the prevailing current. If the bureau did not want a rebuke from the President, it would have to persuade Korea Shipping or threaten it—either way—into signing his charter.
In the unsettled room, Ki-jo and Dae-ik finished, took down the large chart, and quietly made to leave. The director shouted after them.
"Hey! Leave that chart here!"
"Ah—yes, sir!"
Dae-ik answered in his place. With his back turned to the Shipping Bureau officials, Ki-jo smiled, thin and satisfied.