Date: Thu, 19 Mar 1998 12:06:16 -0500 (EST)

Even if it's not illegal, it's immoral to yell "Fire!" if you

stand to profit from the sale of fire extinguishers, especially if you

exaggerate the size and severity of the blaze. Perhaps such an

accusation is warranted in a few instances, but many of the "alarmist"

statements showing up in the media recently have been from people

like Alan Greenspan, who obviously has nothing to do with the sale of

fire extinguishers.

While others of us may not be as famous or as saintly as Mr.

Greenspan, I think it's fair to say that our Y2K warnings are not

only sincere, but indicative of some important variations on the

fire-in-a-crowded-theater metaphor. Consider this variation: when

the theater was built 10 years ago, you were one of the junior

members of the construction crew. You wondered why they didn't use

all of the formal engineering disciplines you had learned in school,

but the veteran construction workers told you that academic theory

doesn't work in the "real world." You were particularly concerned

that the theater wasn't built with sprinklers or smoke detectors, and

you recall overhearing a heated argument between the construction

foreman and the general contractor. The contractor argued that the

sprinklers and smoke detectors were too expensive, and that the

theater owner had not shown any interest in making the investment,

because he planned to sell the theater within a few years.

Ten years have now passed, and you've settled down, gotten married,

and begun raising a family. Your kids are now clamoring for you to

take them to the movies, and as you sit through the Saturday afternoon

matinee performance, you notice that the fire exits have been blocked

by soda vending machines and arcade games. When you mention this to

the theater manager, he shrugs and says it's never been a problem.

But it worries you, especially when you remember the absence of

sprinklers and smoke detectors -- so you tell your children, to their

considerable annoyance, that they can't go to the theater any

more. And because your friends and neighbors have children, you

decide that you should tell them of the danger, too. Indeed, your

sense of civic duty compels you to stand outside the theater during

your spare time, with a big sign that says, "Unsafe theater!" But

most of your neighbors ignore you, and the theater owner is angry: he

accuses you of being an alarmist, reminds you that there have been no

fires since the theater was built, and threatens to sue you for

endangering his thriving business.

Here's another metaphor: you're sitting in the theater, along with a

couple hundred other patrons, and you catch a whiff of smoke and see

a flash of fire in the corner. The rest of the audience apparently

doesn't see or smell anything; they're far too engrossed in the film,

a romantic farce called "Monica Meets Bubba." Again, you remember

the lack of sprinklers and smoke detectors in the building, and you

wonder what you should do. This is a serious question: what is your

moral responsibility at this point? If there was a smoke detector

system, the warning would be sounded without any involvement on your

part; but you don't have that option. It occurs to you that you

should alert the theater management, since it's presumably their

responsibility to deal with the problem. But when you rush out to

the lobby, you find that the cashier and clerks are sound asleep, and

the theater manager has gone home for the night. When you call to

warn him, he hangs up on you. What now? The easy option would be

to leave, but you feel a sense of responsibility -- after all, you

were involved in building this theater that's about to turn into a

fire trap.

So you go back into the theater and begin tapping some of the patrons

on the shoulder. "Pssst!" you whisper, quietly but urgently. "There's

a fire in the theater!" But only a few people pay attention; most of

them frown at you and whisper in response, "Shush! The Monica story

is just getting to the juicy part!"

One last metaphor: you're sitting in the front row of the movie

theater, together with your spouse and your two young children.

Again, you smell smoke, and you see a fire in the corner of the

theater; and again, you remember the lack of smoke detectors and

sprinklers, as well as the blocked fire exits. What now? If you

jump up onto the stage and shout "Fire!" at the top of your lungs,

you run the risk that (a) people will be trampled to death as they

rush for the exit, and (b) your family might be trapped, because the

only functioning exits are at the rear of the theater. The sad irony

is that most of the audience will shout at you to shut up and sit

down; they REALLY want to see the next episode of the Monica story.

Suppose this was not an theoretical exercise; after all, fires DO

break out in crowded buildings occasionally; and in the absence of

effective leadership, everyone is on their own. Some would be

paralyzed by fear (as seems to be the case with Y2K), but those

capable of acting would have to decide whether their own survival

was more important than that of their fellow theater patrons. In my

case, there would be no hesitation: I would tap my wife urgently on

the shoulder and whisper, "Psst! There's a fire!" My wife, who is

just as fascinated by the Monica story as everyone else, would be

incredibly annoyed; but she knows me well enough to realize that I

wouldn't joke about a life-threatening situation. "Are you sure?!?"

she would whisper back to me crossly. And when I responded that I

was absolutely, positively sure, we would both snap into a

well-rehearsed parental-emergency mode: we would march the children

quickly, quietly, and calmly up the aisle of the theater, and out

through the exit. Only then would I go back into the theater to warn

the others, assuming that management was still abdicating its

responsibility.

The Y2K "fire" has not broken out yet, though we'll begin seeing the

first few flames in 1999, possibly as early as January 1, 1999. But

like many of my Y2K colleagues, I can already smell the smoke, and I

believe, deeply and sincerely, that it's going to be a very bad fire

indeed. We can quibble about whether it's better to whisper or

shout, but now that I've gotten my family out of harm's way, I've got

to warn the rest of the audience before the theater is consumed by

fire. I feel obligated to do so, you see, because I helped build

the theater. It wasn't my decision to leave out the sprinklers and

smoke detectors, but I still share some of the responsibility. So

does the cashier and so does the theater manager. So does the

construction foreman and so does the general contractor. So does

the original owner of the theater. And so do you.

Ciao!

Ed

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

If you'd like to comment on today's Y2000 E-Mail Advisor, send e-mail

to yourdon@cutter.com, or send a letter by fax to +1 781 648 8707 or

by mail to The Y2000 E-Mail Advisor, Cutter Consortium, 37 Broadway,

Arlington, MA 02174-5552 USA

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

You can meet Ed Yourdon and the Cutter Consortium faculty members at

Summit '98 -- but only a few seats remain. For more information on

the Summit, call Kara Lovering at 800-964-8702 or 781-648-8702, send

e-mail to klovering@cutter.com, or visit the Cutter Web site,

http://www.cutter.com/consortium/

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

(c) 1998 Cutter Consortium. All rights reserved.

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