IT STARTED OUT as a simple request for a simple solution to a simple problem. And it came from the one man at the University who should be able to sidestep the bureaucratic web that usually ensnares such pleas and transforms them into complicated matters. But it was not to be.

Our tale began three years ago, when Dereck Bok, who runs Harvard, took a break from the momentous decisions that confront a man of his stature--affirmative action, tenure offers, investment ethics--and thought about the quality of life in Harvard Yard. Bok noticed a inordinate amount of traffic within the walls. He was concerned with the safety aspects. He was concerned with the aesthetic aspects. He asked his most trusted lieutenants to do something about it.

"We'll take care of it," they said. And they did.

The problem, it seemed, stemmed from physical limitations of the main traffic entry to the Yard--the gate on Mass. Ave. behind Widener Library. Big trucks couldn't fir through it. And Harvard needs lots of big trucks. So they periodically opened up Johnson Gate--the so-called front door to the Yard--to let them in. But careful and through studies revealed that two open gates meant more traffic than one. The answer they said was to open only one gate, which of course meant closing the Widener gate and opening the Johnson Gate full time.

"But, ah," the great bureaucracy fairy cried. "Not so fast. You can't have a traffic entry just like that." And he added with an evil twinkle in his eye. "You must have a gatehouse--for a guard to sit." And so they started to work on a gatehouse.

But you can't build a gatehouse just like that. Not in Harvard Yard at least. The area in question is considered historic, and consequently any structural change must go through the Cambridge Historical Commission. The University and the Commission have never been close buddies, haggling over innumerable plots which Harvard thought could be used for more appropriate, modern purposes.

Moreover, Harvard does not treat such projects lightly. They went out and hired one of the most prestigious--and expensive--architects in the area. Graham Gund, whose father lent his name to Harvard's design school building. They also decided to install a phone and heating.

The gatehouse talks did not start smoothly. The commission did not feel that the traffic was a problem, but it was unable to persuade University officials. The University first wanted to simply add a gatehouse directly to the gate--similar to the setup behind Widener. But they could not persuade commission members who thought that would be unfair tampering with antique material.

So they squabbled and they squabbled Gund went back to the drawing board about 300 times in fact--and came up with a final play and ornately designed wooden 5 foot by 5 foot house with a pointy roof. The commission suggested changing the roofing material and the paint color. The plan was set in action, the University shelled out $25.000 In early July, the structure was unveiled amid fanfare. And they worked happily ever after.

BUT BEFORE this story fades into the history books, a couple of morals--or at least questions need to be raised One, of course, regards costs. All officials concede that the price tag is inordinately high for the relatively small amount of square footage involved Some have tried to put the onus on the Historical Commission for imposing by Byzantine regulations. "They certainly call the shots Harvard really had little flexibility." George Oomen, project manager, says. And perhaps some of the blame does he there.

But much of the explanation has to lie with the Harvard mentality itself Charles Sullivan, executive director of the commission. pshaws any claims that his organization inflated the costs, noting that they recommended few actual changes, and that Harvard obviously went into the project with grand designs in mind. "You don't hire Graham Gund to build a telephone booth." Sullivan adds.

Robert H. Scott vice president for administration, perhaps sums it up best when he says. "We wanted to build a quality gatehouse." Such an obsession may seem silly (Gund says he spent "an inordinate amount amount of time for that sized building.") "But it's the mindset of getting things that look the best and setting few cost restrictions that led officials three years ago to purchase seven kiosks for $6000 each. When Tufts got similar items for about $150 apiece. That is, in part, why it costs $60,000 to get a bachelor's degree from Harvard.

There are of course, complicated explanations of every tub on its own bottom financing of intricate financing, etc that prevent direct comparisons. Yet it seems somewhat perplexing that such high quality concerns do not permeate cost decisions on minor student life issues, such as quality food, feeding graduating seniors during Commencement Week, consistent dorm heating, longer library hours--even carpeting the treacherously squeaky floors in Lamont.

The final question demanding attention is, of course whether Harvard got a quality product Sullivan waxes eloquent about the structure's "post-modernist statement." It uses he adds, "traditional shapes and forms, putting them together in a much different way," Gund says. "The reason for some of the detail is to make if not look like a a toll booth, not make it look utilitarian."

But to a lot of people, it looks, well, silly. It seems like a simplified case of the Best and the Brightest using intricate formulas and training to create a project that, to the average Joe, at least is wrong. The historical commission voted 5 to 1 to issue a "certificate of appropriateness," but few passersby walk through Johnston Gate without a giggle or a smirk. "Cookie house" is a common label floating around the Yard One employee asked for the designs so he could build a doll house for his daughter. Scott who says he himself is pleased with the final product concedes that some might not be so enamored of it. Among the host of comments he has received was the suggestion to hang a sign on the front door bearing "Welcome to Harvard Yardenstein."