“Sir, we can find and clear all sorts of experts for you to talk to,” McClennan said. “This sort of thing is counterproductive.” Crockerman slowly looked up at McClennan, lips drawn tight. “How much time do we have until this machine starts dismantling the Earth?” McClennan’s face reddened. “Nobody knows, Mr. President,” he said. Hicks stiffened his back and glanced around the table. “Excuse me,” he said, “but—” “Then, Carl,” Crockerman continued, “isn’t the time-consuming, formal way of doing things counterproductive?”
