Strategic Management Text and Cases 6th Edition Dess Test Bank
Strategic Management Text and Cases 6th Edition Dess Test Bank
Strategic Management Text and Cases 6th Edition Dess Test Bank
Chapter 02
Analyzing the External Environment of the Firm
2. Environmental monitoring deals with tracking changes in environmental trends that are
often uncovered during the environmental scanning process.
True False
3. Competitor Intelligence (CI) is a tool that can provide management with "early warnings"
about both threats and opportunities.
True False
4. Competitive intelligence generally does not benefit very much from gathering information
on competitors from sources in the public domain.
True False
5. Even with all of the advances in recent years, forecasting is typically considered more of an
art than a science and it is of little use in generating accurate predictions.
True False
2-1
7. Although changes in the general environment may often adversely or favorably impact a
firm, they seldom alter an entire industry.
True False
8. The same environmental trend can often have very different effects on firms within the
same industry.
True False
9. A major sociocultural trend in the United States is the increased educational attainment by
women.
True False
10. Technological innovations can create entirely new industries and alter the boundaries of
industries.
True False
11. There is generally a weak relationship between equity markets (e.g., New York Stock
Exchange) and economic indicators.
True False
12. The Internet provides an electronic "staging area" for several forms of digital
communications.
True False
13. Porter's Five-Forces model is designed to help us understand how social attitudes and
cultural values impact U.S. businesses.
True False
2-2
Chapter 02 - Analyzing the External Environment of the Firm
14. Porter's Five-Forces model helps to determine both the nature of competition in an
industry and the industry's profit potential.
True False
15. In some industries, high switching costs can act as an important barrier to entry.
True False
16. Industries characterized by high economies of scale typically attract fewer new entrants.
True False
17. The power of a buyer group is increased if the buyer group has less concentration than the
supplier group.
True False
18. Buyer power tends to be higher if suppliers provide undifferentiated or standard products.
True False
19. Supplier power tends to be highest in industries where products are vital to buyers, where
switching from one supplier to another is very costly, and where there are many suppliers.
True False
20. The power of suppliers will be enhanced if they are able to maintain a credible threat of
forward integration.
True False
21. The more attractive the price/performance ratio of substitute products, the more tightly it
constraints an industry's ability to charge high prices.
True False
2-3
Another random document with
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the watch were the sun, the migrating birds and some dolphins in the
water.
Towards two o’clock I received the sudden news of the death of a sailor
on board. The news tore me from my peaceful mood. I know that in this
far place the death of one man does not count, especially when one is
acquainted with that man only by a number. Yet I could not refrain from
a certain melancholy, and the train of my reveries became somber. You
poor little sailor, who has given up his life in this iron prison, where will
be your grave? The perfumed rocks of Greece, or the sands of Apulia, or
a shroud in the Ionian deeps? Wherever it be, no hand will ever strew
flowers on your white wooden cross, and those who write you to-day
perhaps will not know to what part of the vast world they should direct
their tears.
To the end of my watch I keep thinking of this destiny of the sailors, who
do not even halt to die. Around me the faces of the lookouts and gunners
show the same aspect of gravity which mine should have. This morning,
it seems to me, touches us more than it should. Is there not going on
somewhere a drama much more terrible?
In order to banish such reflections, I go to look in my cabin for my little
dog Jimmino, with his cold nose, his soft eyes and silky hair. Since my
last stay in Malta, he has exchanged the ease of his mistress’ home for
the hard existence of a ship. At night he sleeps in the hollow of my
shoulder, and when he wakes, he watches my slumber without stirring.
When I work, he whines softly until I lift him up on my desk. He puts his
head between his paws, and follows the course of my pen. He does not
like me to remain too long without speaking to him, for I think he is of a
jealous temperament. In order to let me know he is there, Jimmino rises
and walks across my pages where his paws trail thick threads of ink.
Then I give him a little tap on his cold nose and scold him:
“Get away, you horrible, badly brought up little thing! What would your
mother say if she...”
“Well, well,” replies the little tail as it wags. “You have spoken, silent
master, and you have struck me; so you must love me. I am not vexed
with you any more.”
Jimmino lies down again within reach of the paper, his nose so near the
sheets that at the end of every line I feel his warm breath on the back of
my fingers. He watches my bent head, and thinks:
“I know very well you are bored, and that you brought me with you to
distract you. I am very happy when you deign to think of me. But do you
suppose that I am amused? Formerly, I played with the cat, on the stairs,
under the furniture, and around the kitchen. Everything smelt good all
around, and they washed me every morning. Here everything is full of
coal and bad odors. The moving sea makes me dizzy. And then I have
become the dog of an officer, and cannot go with the crews’ pets. What
have I done that you should exile me? Listen to me, silent master. Speak
to me.”
The paw stretches out cautiously to the edge of my freshly written line.
“Back, Jimmino! You will make a bad blot!”
The paw draws back.
“Bah! You are right,” the master goes on. “It is late. In a quarter of an
hour we shall eat. Come up on the bridge. We will take the air.”
I take Jimmino, warm and soft, up on my shoulder, where he weighs
nothing. He settles himself, snuggles against my ear which he tickles. He
trembles at my rapid course along the corridors, up the companion ways,
to the height of the bridge.
The twilight is marvelous with its soft and delicate shades of color.
“What news?” I say to the officer of the watch.
“Nothing.... The same old story.”
“Any interesting messages?”
“None! Communiqués from Eiffel, Norddeich, Poldhu. The cruisers have
nothing to say. Go read the memorandum.”
I hasten to read the book of telegrams, glancing over the hundred or two
hundred messages of the day. It is the same strain as yesterday, and as it
will be to-morrow. “Left Navaria at 2 . .,” says this one. “I count on
finishing coaling this evening,” says another. “I am on my way to
Bizerta,” says a third, and so on for four pages.
“Well,” says the officer of the watch. “You see there is nothing.”
“It’s queer. The Gambetta has not spoken to-day.”
“There was probably nothing to announce.”
“It should have signaled its daily position this morning.”
“Wireless damaged perhaps.”
“Perhaps. All the same it has said nothing since 9 o’clock last night.”
“Have any of the cruisers called her?”
“Yes! And she has not responded.”
“You are sure?”
“Go and see. I will watch in your place.”
Five minutes later my comrade returns, after running over, examining
and considering the four pages of messages.
“You are right,” he says. “It is strange. However, nothing has happened
to her. She would always have had time to signal S. O. S. That doesn’t
take two seconds.”
“That’s true. But all the same, she should have replied to the ships that
called her.”
“She was wrong. We shall see to-morrow.”
I go down to dinner. On my chair Jimmino, crouched like a sphinx, is
waiting for bits from my meal. Our assembly is not very noisy. We
comment upon the end of the day, and the doctor receives placidly the
usual pleasantries. The conversation turns listlessly on Turkish affairs.
Why is there no animation? The officers who are going to take the watch
rise to put on their uniforms for the night. We greet them in the familiar
way as they pass out. “A good watch to you, old man! Keep your eyes
open!” “Don’t delay us!” “You know I’m taking the Paris express this
evening.” “If you see a submarine try not to waken me.” “And then,” I
added, “let me know if there is a message from the Gambetta.”
“Why?”
“She has not spoken for nearly twenty-four hours.”
“The deuce!” murmured the assembly. “What has happened to her?”
The game tables are set up, for dominoes, chess, bridge; the smokers
light their pipes; the readers open their paper; others stretch out on the
cushions. Interpretations are offered concerning the silence of the
Gambetta.
“Accident to the wireless....”
“She had nothing to say....”
“She ought to have signaled her daily position....”
“She should have replied when she was called....”
“We shall see to-morrow...!”
The cards fall, the dominoes grate, the newspapers crackle, and the pipes
pull. All in this little world are silent, absorbed in their game, their
reading or their reveries. But it is appearance only. Yesterday afternoon
we talked with the Gambetta; last night she cruised in the sector where
we were to go. For twenty-four hours she has been silent. In the cards, in
the papers, and the smoke from the pipes, each one of us reads these
disquieting thoughts. But no one speaks of it. I go to bed, for I have to
take the watch again in the middle of the night.
Jimmino trots behind me, installs himself near the pillow, and sleeps
with a dreamless slumber. But I await through the long hours some news
of the Gambetta. Eyes closed or open, I cannot escape being haunted by
her. All my comrades tell me they have passed a sleepless night.
In the shadow I go up to take the watch. My predecessor repeats the
sacred phrases. I interrupt him:
“But the Gambetta?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you think of it?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you believe that...?”
I dare not finish. He dares not answer, but disappears in the darkness.
I fix my eyes on this treacherous sea which never gives up its secrets. An
anguish with iron fingers presses my heart. There is no more doubt of it,
death has passed over one of our brothers. Each hour that slips by proves
the magnitude of the disaster, and if no news ever reaches us, it will be
because all at one stroke eight hundred men will have plunged into the
sea. Leaning on the rail, I stroke the metal mechanically, and the wood
and canvas which meet my hand. I enjoy feeling the good cruiser, alive
and in motion, quivering under me. I realize how much I love her, and it
seems to me, that in order to pierce the darkness, my eyes take on the
acuteness of a father’s who scans the face of a child of his that is
menaced by death.
A little later our wireless operator sends me a bundle of messages. With
nervous fingers the ensign translator turns over his codes and dictionaries
in order to transform these ciphers into French. Each minute I go to his
shoulder to read the line, or the half-line, or the word he has transcribed.
Heavens! How long it takes to spell out the horror!
On the deck, a black chaos! Each second the cruiser sinks deeper. The
gulf of the waves grows larger, and each moment perhaps will be the
final plunge. By main force the sailors launch the boats and the cutter,
which drop into the water wrong side or right side up. The officers are
calm and have put aside their fatigue; they give the necessary orders for
the rescue. In the sky the two masts and the four stacks sink lower and
lower. The cruiser, with its apparatus damaged, can send out no signal
for help, and all those who dwell on her plunge into the depths as if
down a silent stair.
A handful of men have been able to enter the boats. Chilled, but
struggling for life, they have taken the oars, and during the last hours of
the night have rowed towards the friendly lighthouse. At the first gleam
of day, with bleeding hands, but with a marvelous tenacity of will, they
have made a supreme effort, and the Italian customs-officers take in sixty
exhausted men almost at the point of death.
From Tarentum to Rome, from Rome to Paris, from Paris to Malta, and
from Malta to the Waldeck-Rousseau, this story of the drama has been
traveling for twenty-four hours. The good neighbor we loved to see in
our meetings on the high sea has met the death which might have been
our own. She has disappeared without a word, felled at the first stroke in
an eddy of the sea, as befalls her pilgrims. The wound was muffled and
dumb, for over there on the horizon I saw nothing. One of the flashes
that played in the sky was perhaps the gleam of the torpedo which killed
her, but I was deceived by the illusion of distance.
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