《No, Minister.(存一下英文版)》用其他笔名

11、[Maiden Voyage] S01E01 Information Currency

　　"A farce!"
　　Back in his office, Charles tore off his tie and threw it on the desk. The anger in the movement made Cyril, who followed him in and was carefully closing the door, flinch.
　　Charles paced before the desk twice, then threw himself into a visitor's armchair, saying nothing.
　　Not until Cyril brought him a cup of tea and placed it gently on the small table in front of him.
　　"A joke… an absolute joke."
　　Charles lifted his head from his hands and let out a long breath.
　　"They can't even be bothered to disguise it properly. Budget, law, security… they can find ten thousand reasons for 'no', but not a single thought for 'why not try?'. A room full of well-suited elites, sitting together, using the most beautiful words and the most unassailable procedures to do the most boring, most meaningless things."
　　"That is their job, I'm afraid, Minister," Cyril said softly.
　　"Their job? Is their job to stop the government from functioning?" Charles scoffed. He picked up the teacup, took a large gulp, and then frowned.
　　"Too sweet."
　　"My apologies, Minister, I thought you…"
　　"Never mind." Charles put the cup down, pressing his temples. "It's not your fault, Cyril. I was the naive one. I thought if I came with a solution, they would at least… discuss it. Instead, I became the nuisance who interrupted their afternoon tea."
　　He rose and walked to his whiteboard, looking at the blueprint he had spent all morning drawing, a blueprint that had been utterly useless in the afternoon's meeting.
　　Charles picked up the eraser, intending to wipe it all away.
　　"I would advise against that, Minister."
　　Alistair's voice came from the doorway.
　　He was standing there, at some point having arrived, the familiar file in his hand.
　　"Come to gloat, 'Victor'? You don't look surprised at all," Charles's voice was laced with frustration and residual anger. "You knew this would be the outcome, didn't you? When you handed me that agenda, you knew my proposal would be smashed to pieces. And your draft was prepared for this very surrender ceremony."
　　"I anticipated there would be resistance, Minister," Alistair said, entering the room and placing the file on Charles's desk.
　　"Information silos are a chronic disease in Whitehall. Every department treats information as its own asset, not a public resource. In Whitehall, 'unification' means centralisation of power, and 'platform' means a transfer of control. You thought you were selling an efficient sharing platform, Minister. But in their eyes—forgive me for using a rather impolite historical analogy—you were launching a bloodless coup, attempting to establish an information Star Chamber above all departments."
　　Charles was struck dumb by the absurd analogy.
　　"But this was not a failed meeting, Minister. On the contrary, it was very valuable," Alistair continued.
　　"Valuable? What value? Our only achievement is to set up a useless liaison officer mechanism. It's a working group that holds regular tea breaks. Worthless. Meaningless."
　　"Value lies not only in the outcome, but in the insight. And meaning, Minister, is what resides beneath the surface of appearance." Alistair came to stand beside Charles, meeting his eyes. "Do you know why I scheduled this meeting on your calendar?"
　　"To fulfil our function, to make the DSC look like it's running," Charles said sarcastically.
　　"Yes… and no," Alistair shook his head. "To convene the relevant departmental representatives, to chair the DSC's first regular meeting, to prove to the outside world that we exist, and then to produce a report demonstrating that we are actively fulfilling our coordinating function. It fulfils the form and leaves a trace, but that is the surface."
　　"The deeper layer is a reconnaissance, to acquire information."
　　"Information?" At this, Charles's temper almost flared. "To enrich our thesaurus of 'No'?"
　　Alistair did not answer directly. He picked up a marker. "May I, Minister?"
　　Charles made a 'be my guest' gesture and stepped back.
　　"The Inter-Departmental Information Sharing Meeting…" Alistair began, first completing the small part of the framework Charles had just erased. "This meeting itself is the most revealing information."
　　"You mentioned 'No', Minister. Let us begin with the refusals of the various representatives."
　　He switched to a red marker and dotted it under the acronym 'HMT' for the Treasury, turning to Charles. "Mr Pinkerton, Deputy Permanent Secretary at the Treasury. Why do you think he opposed your platform?"
　　"Because of the budget," Charles said without hesitation. "'Value for money', he said it himself. He kept talking about cost, budget, and the Public Accounts Committee. At the end of the day, he just doesn't want to spend the money."
　　"He used the Prime Minister's 'efficiency review' to counter my 'efficiency proposal'. Typical Treasury short-sightedness. He threw out working groups and feasibility studies, a clear delaying tactic to drown my proposal in a pile of procedure, using six months to kill an idea that could be decided in six minutes…" He scoffed as he spoke.
　　"On the surface, yes," Alistair shook his head gently. "But what he truly opposes is not the budget itself, but an 'unpredictable budget'."
　　"The Treasury's greatest power stems from its control over the budgets of all departments. The Treasury is not unwilling to spend money; they simply want to ensure that any decision to spend money is controlled by the Treasury. That is also why the Treasury sent a Deputy Permanent Secretary to attend."
　　Charles watched as Alistair wrote on the whiteboard:
　　Budget Control
　　Appropriation Prerogative
　　"Mr Pinkerton was not really discussing cost, but rather warning against any attempt to bypass established procedure. His proposal of a 'six-month study' was precisely to bring your potentially uncontrollable variable back onto a familiar, controllable track. Feasibility studies, committee assessments, inter-departmental reviews… every step is a process for the Treasury to reclaim its power to define the budget and its prerogative to approve it," Alistair continued.
　　Finally, he moved the pen to the acronym 'HO' for the Home Office.
　　"And Ms Davies? Why do you think she refused?"
　　"She was worried about the political storm from a privacy breach… but that's not the point either," Charles replied after a moment's thought. "Ms Davies talks about a privacy disaster, but what she truly fears is the dilution of the Home Office's control over citizen data. For them, data is not for sharing; it is for maintaining stability and law enforcement. To share data is to dilute power." He raised his right hand to his chin, his left supporting his right elbow. "She was protecting the Home Office's territory, their monopoly on information. Their 'privacy' refers to the department's absolute control over the data it holds, and the avoidance of any risk that might lead to it bearing additional responsibility."
　　New phrases appeared on the board:
　　Information Monopoly
　　Liability Avoidance
　　Charles's gaze began to wander between the departmental acronyms, re-savouring the play he thought he had understood, but in fact had not.
　　More red text spread across the whiteboard.
　　The Department of Trade emphasising 'commercial confidentiality' and 'unnecessary panic' was about maintaining its authority in the economic sphere.
　　The Department of Industry worrying about 'technical compatibility' and 'source of budget' was about fear of being saddled with blame and cost.
　　The Scottish and Welsh Offices insisting on the 'uniqueness of local data' and 'sovereign ownership' was a classic strategy for defending regional power under a coalition government.
　　The lady from the Department of Health deflecting responsibility to 'local authorities' and 'patient confidentiality' was also using a 'sacred' reason to evade responsibility…
　　Frustration was replaced by new thought; residual anger turned into inquiry.
　　"So, behind every 'No' lies a 'Yes' they truly care about?"
　　Charles looked into those green eyes. The other man met his gaze calmly.
　　"Yes, indeed," Alistair nodded gently.
　　"If we understand how they will refuse us in the future, then we can find a way to make it impossible for them to refuse us. We know we must arm our proposals with procedure, use the risk of public opinion to circumvent their evasions, and respect their territory to gain a ticket for entry."
　　"What's more interesting…" he tilted his head slightly, a hint of amusement in his voice, "is that sometimes, they will quietly slip you a real 'Yes' amidst a pile of 'No's."
　　The red marker drew two lines under the 'MoD' for the Ministry of Defence.
　　"In a grand narrative of fortresses, breaches, and national survival, why did Major Sampson specifically mention the 'delay of the South Atlantic patrol vessel'—a concrete detail that sounds like an internal management error?"
　　"I thought he was just complaining about budget cuts," Charles frowned.
　　"He was complaining, but perhaps not just complaining," Alistair shook his head. "In a meeting filled with officialese, any specific detail can be a signal. Major Sampson used a very vague term, 'coordination issues', but he precisely targeted 'budget' and 'maintenance'. Perhaps he was using this occasion to send an informal, cross-departmental message."
　　"He might be signalling to Mr Pinkerton from the Treasury that budget cuts will lead to military operational impairment; he might be trying to transmit a 'we're in trouble' signal between departments, seeking potential allies or pre-emptively lowering external expectations; or possibly… he was testing the DSC's reaction as a new information node."
　　The marker was placed back on the tray.
　　"The hidden content revealed in these details, that is the information we have gathered, Minister," Alistair turned to Charles.
　　"Information is not just what they are willing to write on paper. Information is the fragment of intent, the shadow of fear, the boundary of power. Who sent what level of representative, how much material they prepared, who appeared defensive, who tried to form an alliance… all of this is information, and information they likely do not know they are leaking. The unspoken silences, the clever 'suggestions for further study', the practised art of deflecting responsibility to a committee—they are all part of Whitehall's unwritten constitution."
　　"So, we're gathering intelligence?" Charles murmured. "Like an intelligence agency?"
　　"We are building connections. We are coordinators," Alistair corrected softly. "We need to know, better than any other department, what they know, and more importantly, what they prefer others not to know."
　　"In Whitehall, information is not blood; information is currency. Each department hoards its own reserves, carefully calculating the gains and losses of every transaction. Today, we have completed our first market survey. We have ascertained the exchange rates, understood the rules of trade, and identified the bottom lines of each player. Tomorrow, the secretariat will draft the implementation details for the DLO mechanism and the invitation letters for the liaison officers. We will establish a legal, continuous pipeline for information gathering, leading directly into the heart of every department."
　　"What's the use of that? It's all public information."
　　"It is a start, Minister. It will make the DSC an official observation post in Whitehall's information flow. This seemingly harmless mechanism will become the DSC's most important asset. Think of it: every department must designate a specific person to liaise with us, to provide information regularly. These liaison officers, regardless of their rank, are nodes we can maintain long-term contact with. This is an initial network of contacts. And…"
　　He paused, his voice taking on a guiding tone. "On the surface, it is public information. But who defines what is 'public'? Who decides the level of detail in a report? Even if at first we can only trade for small change—fragments of public information. But over time, as we prove our value…"
　　Alistair did not finish, but simply glanced again at the grand blueprint Charles had drawn on the whiteboard.
　　Charles also looked at the red and black interweaved work.
　　Intentions, fears, relationships, patterns of behaviour.
　　The red text pointed a way to deconstruct and counter the bureaucratic system using its own rules.
　　Charles knew he disliked this method—obsequious, circuitous, full of bureaucratic cunning.
　　He yearned for direct, frank, sweeping reform. But Alistair's way… seemed to be the only feasible one at present. And… very effective.
　　It felt awful.
　　He let out a slow breath and looked at Alistair.
　　"We are using their methods, following their procedures, becoming one of them?"
　　"Not becoming them. Understanding them. Only by understanding the rules can one find the gaps in the rules," Alistair met Charles's gaze.
　　"I know what you seek, Minister. But before you can change the rules, you must first understand them. Understand the real power dynamics and information flows, understand the intricate terrain of Whitehall, understand the rules of this jungle. Only by first knowing where the paths in the forest lead, who controls the water sources, and which beasts guard their territory most fiercely, can one venture deeper. A map, however crude, that has begun to be drawn—that is the true value of this meeting. First, we make it look like it runs; then we make it run."
　　"So…" Charles was still vexed. "What I'm supposed to do now is draft a report telling the Prime Minister our meeting today was 'fruitful' because we successfully got everyone to say 'No' to us, figured out how they'll continue to say 'No' next time, and perhaps picked up a vague piece of military gossip?"
　　"No, Minister," Alistair shook his head in disagreement.
　　"I think you should tell the Prime Minister that 'the meeting has laid a solid foundation for future inter-departmental synergy.' A well-phrased report, proving that we are actively fulfilling our function. Surface value is sometimes a necessary ritual."
　　He walked two steps to the desk, picked up the file he had brought, and handed it to Charles.
　　"The format for the report is at the end of the file. Cyril will assist you in completing it. I am confident he will capture the essence of the meeting precisely."
　　As Alistair spoke, he turned his head to look at the young man who had just emerged from the annex, gave a slight nod, and left the office.
　　"'The essence'?" Charles looked at the closed connecting door, then back at the whiteboard. "What a profound art of language… a rhetoric for packaging failure as victory."
　　He went to sit behind his desk, sinking wearily into the chair.
　　He opened the file. The first page was the draft agenda he had rejected that morning—the large black cross he had drawn on it now looked particularly glaring. Further on were the departmental files, with introductions and analyses of the attendees, followed by the draft agenda for the DLO mechanism, with a few amendments. At the very end was the report outline with its attached template.
　　Charles pulled it out and spread it on the desk.
　　Cyril placed a fresh cup of tea gently by Charles's hand, then took his seat to the left of the desk, opening his notebook.
　　"Where shall we begin, Minister?" he asked quietly.
　　"On 23rd January 1980, the Department of Synergy Coordination held its first Inter-Departmental Information Sharing Meeting…" Charles looked at the blank report template, but what came to mind were the red annotations on the whiteboard. "The attendees engaged in a…" He stopped.
　　"…fruitful discussion," Cyril gently interjected after several seconds.
　　Charles turned to look at his PPS. There was no sarcasm in the young man's blue eyes, only a calm, focused attention, awaiting his response.
　　"You can really write that?" he asked. "Turn today's… that farce, into a 'fruitful' report?"
　　"Minister," Cyril chose his words carefully, "the function of a report is to transform facts into a form that can circulate within the system. A consensus was indeed reached today—the DLO mechanism, the quarterly tea, the information brief. These are all… recordable outcomes."
　　"'Recordable outcomes'," Charles repeated with a self-mocking edge. "I spent two hours in a surface-level meeting, and now I'm to spend another two hours writing a surface-level report, to report that I will then spend more time organising more surface-level meetings?"
　　Cyril did not reply immediately. He glanced at his notes, then back at Charles.
　　"What is it?" Charles noticed his hesitation.
　　"Minister…" Cyril took a deep breath. "If you don't mind, I was thinking… perhaps you might like to look at my meeting notes?"
　　Charles was somewhat surprised. He looked at the open notebook in front of him.
　　"I recorded some… details that might be useful, as a basis for the minutes. Perhaps they could help you write the report. Or perhaps… help you understand…" Cyril paused, seemingly considering his words, "…understand what the Acting Permanent Secretary was talking about."
　　"Alright," Charles hesitated, then finally nodded, putting down his pen. "Let me see the 'essence' you've recorded."
　　Cyril turned the notebook around and pushed it towards Charles.
　　The pages were densely filled with shorthand symbols and brief annotations.
　　Charles scanned a few lines. From what he could decipher, this was no ordinary record of a meeting. Cyril had noted not just the content of the speeches, but a wealth of details Charles had considered 'unimportant'.
　　For instance: "Pinkerton, leather folder, 2cm."
　　"You even wrote down what they brought with them?"
　　"Yes, Minister. The thickness of a folder can indicate how much material they've prepared. The more prepared they are, the more seriously they are taking the meeting," Cyril said softly. "The Acting Permanent Secretary advised me to record, as far as possible, all details that might have informational value."
　　"Of course he did… 'The Observer'," Charles muttered.
　　Cyril carefully moved his chair closer to Charles to explain the various shorthand symbols in the notebook.
　　"First, the Treasury sent Mr Pinkerton, a Deputy Permanent Secretary. That rank doesn't usually attend the first meeting of a new department—unless the Treasury believes this department might touch upon its budget approval powers."
　　He pointed to a note. "Ms Davies from the Home Office, an Assistant Secretary, responsible for data protection and citizen privacy policy. She is not the usual Home Office official for inter-departmental coordination. This means the Home Office specifically sent a representative with more experience and authority in 'refusing data sharing' for this meeting."
　　"And Major Sampson from the MoD…" Cyril rose slightly to lean forward, turning the page of his notebook, his finger tracing past an asterisk next to 'MoD' before pausing. "When he mentioned the delay of the South Atlantic patrol vessel, Mr Pinkerton wrote something in his notebook. I couldn't see what it was, but afterwards he frequently glanced at Major Sampson."
　　Charles's brow furrowed. "Are you certain?"
　　"Yes, Minister. I made a point of observing that," Cyril nodded.
　　"So you also think Sampson was… sending a signal to Pinkerton?"
　　"I am not certain, Minister. I just think it is a distinct possibility," he added. "And… after Major Sampson said that, his gaze briefly swept over you, then Sir, and finally settled on Mr Pinkerton for several seconds. Hmm… during which time Mr Pinkerton avoided eye contact with him."
　　Charles slowly leaned back in his chair.
　　He suddenly realised that during the meeting that afternoon, he had only been listening to what people were saying, and had paid no attention at all to how they were saying it. He had been fixated on the 'No's that rejected him, completely oblivious to these details.
　　"Was there anything else?" Charles heard himself ask.
　　Cyril turned a few more pages.
　　"The young official from the Department of Trade—when he said he 'could not make a commitment, and needed to consult the Minister and Permanent Secretary', he used the word 'consult', not 'report'."
　　"What's the difference?"
　　"'Consult' implies he has not been granted any decision-making authority, not even for a preliminary statement. This suggests the Department of Trade's level of seriousness about this meeting… was perhaps not as high as other departments."
　　Charles remembered the young official's slightly nervous demeanour.
　　"And the old director from the Department of Industry…" Cyril continued, "When he mentioned 'who pays the budget', he looked at you first, not Mr Pinkerton."
　　"And what does that tell us?"
　　"He was testing whether the DSC had an independent budget, or if it had to rely on Treasury funding—I mean, it's a 'possibility'. If you had answered 'the DSC will cover it', he might have changed his strategy. But you didn't answer, so he assumed the DSC has no independent financial authority and sided with the Treasury."
　　Charles closed his eyes.
　　The whole meeting, he thought he was selling a proposal, but in reality, those civil servants were using his proposal to test the DSC's boundaries of authority, its budget sources, its political standing…
　　"Minister?" Cyril called softly.
　　"Do you know what the worst part is, Cyril?" Charles opened his eyes and looked up at his PPS. "It's not that they refused me. It's that I didn't even know what game they were playing with me."
　　"But now you do."
　　Yes. Now he did.
　　Charles turned to look at the whiteboard, at the red writing on it, then looked down at Cyril's notes, at the detailed observations, the sharp annotations.
　　This was what Alistair meant by 'information currency'.
　　Every detail was a coin.
　　Who brought what file, who looked at whom, who used what word, who avoided whose gaze, who cared about what, who was afraid of what…
　　"So now, I've been schooled by two people," he sighed softly.
　　"I am still learning too, Minister," Cyril said sincerely.
　　Charles glanced at him and waved a hand.
　　"Sit back down, Cyril. Your notes… are very valuable."
　　He picked up the cold tea, took a sip, then picked up his pen. "Let's continue with this 'fruitful' report."
　　"Yes, Minister."
　　The office fell quiet again, save for the scratching of pen on paper and the soft rustle of turning pages.
　　And the occasional query and reply on matters of phrasing.
　　"…the attendees engaged in a fruitful discussion on establishing a long-term coordination mechanism, and reached a consensus on the following matters…"
　　"…the meeting established the Dedicated Liaison Officer for Information Notification mechanism, providing a clear channel of communication for all departments…"
　　"…laying a solid foundation for future inter-departmental synergy…"
　　"…"
　　And so, the bureaucratic platitudes Charles rather detested began to flow from his pen, leaving neat lines of text on the paper.
　　And the Department of Synergy Coordination, amidst this bog of officialese, prevarication, and undercurrents of intelligence, began, haltingly, to function, carefully collecting its scattered 'information currency'.