The Death Of A Monopoly

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When MCI, the company that broke the monopoly that AT&T had on long-distance telephony in the United States and Canada, was sold recently, it went for $22 billion. That’s not bad for an operation that less than three decades ago was having trouble borrowing thirty-five thousand dollars. It is perhaps the greatest example of creative destruction in the modern history of capitalism.

Joseph Schumpeter, the great philosopher of capitalism, coined the phrase creative destruction . He was referring to the never-ending restructuring that takes place in a free-market economy as new technologies replace old ones and new companies outcompete their more established rivals. This is often a very painful process on the microeconomic level, as people lose their jobs and investors lose their capital. Indeed, the phenomenon of creative destruction played no small part in the rise of the left in the late nineteenth century as means were sought to avoid the pain without losing the benefits of a technologically progressive economy.

But after numerous experiments with noncapitalist and mixed economies in the twentieth century, creative destruction has turned out to be indispensable at the macroeconomic level. First, because the government owns the means of production in a socialist economy, political considerations, not economic ones, have always dominated decision-making, and politicians will always try to preserve what is over fostering what might be. After all, what is votes; what might be does not.

Second, socialist economies have relied on monopolies to avoid “wasteful” competition and provide economies of scale. But all monopolies, whether owned by “the people” or by shareholders, tend to become fat, lazy, and uninnovative. Again, what is becomes heavily favored over what might be.

The inevitable result, from democratic, semicapitalist Britain in the years after World War II to the unspeakable tyrannies of Communist North Korea and Albania, has always been economic stagnation, lagging technology, and increasing relative poverty.

But even in the most capitalist countries, there have always been what economists call “natural monopolies.” These usually involve situations where such a heavy investment would be needed to provide competition that it would raise the costs above any possible savings. Electrical utilities are a typical example.

The long-distance market in North America was, only twenty years ago, the greatest natural monopoly on earth. Today, however, it is a ferociously competitive industry, as the endless stream of television commercials demonstrates. What happened? Most important, the development of microwave transmission technology—one of the myriad spinoffs from the invention of radar—made it possible for someone to compete with AT&T without duplicating Ma Bell’s vast landline infrastructure. This broke the natural monopoly. All that was needed thereafter was to break the regulatory one. That was not easy, for the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) was used to working closely with AT&T and had a natural tendency to favor it. Ironically, however, AT&T made, two decades apart, two trivial mistakes that each in no small way helped end the monopoly.

First, an elephant named AT&T tried to squash a mouse called Hush-A-Phone. It is characteristic, indeed instinctive, for a monopoly to protect its turf. Hush-A-Phone was so insignificant, however, that AT&T did not even notice its existence for nearly thirty years.

In 1921 a small company called Hush-A-Phone began to manufacture a device that could be fitted onto the mouthpiece of a phone. Because of its shape, it allowed the speaker to speak softly and be heard by the person at the other end, while people in the room could not listen in. It was a purely mechanical device and in no way affected the operation of the individual phone to which it was attached.

Then, in the late 1940s, an AT&T lawyer, taking a lunchtime stroll in lower Manhattan, noticed a Hush-A-Phone in a store window. He bought one and took it back to AT&T headquarters. The company moved immediately to have the Federal Communications Commission forbid the use of Hush-A-Phone on all AT&T equipment. Because in those days customers rented their phones from AT&T rather than owned them, that meant, for all practical purposes, every phone in the United States. AT&T argued before the FCC that Hush-A-Phone might interfere with its equipment and might even cause a catastrophic failure of the system.

The FCC, all too used to saying, “How high?” when AT&T said, “Jump,” ruled against Hush-A-Phone. Hush-A-Phone appealed to the courts. The U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia, unable to see how a bit of plastic screwed onto the end of a phone could have any effect whatever on AT&T’s continent-spanning network, ordered the FCC to reverse its decision.

The Hush-A-Phone case was important not in itself but in its use as precedent. From then on AT&T would have to prove, not merely declare ex cathedra , that an attachment to its system would harm the system. With the contemporaneous onset of the electronic revolution (helped mightily by the invention of the transistor by—you guessed it—AT&T) this began to occur more and more often, and AT&T’s monopoly began to fray at the edges. It was MCI, however, that unraveled it.