Bill Howard was off the air, of course. It didn't bother him. He had a real problem now.
We've bought a little time, he thought. A little time to grow in.
We've bought a little time from the fanatics and their statesmen, from the eggheads and their politicians, from the military and the industrial and the just generally foolhardy.
We, the people of the world, have a little time now that we didn't have yesterday.
How much? He didn't know.
On this one, there'd been time to get together. On this one, there'd been weeks, while the crisis built and the world faced a horrible death. This crisis had been a lengthy one. There'd been time for a man to make up his mind and try a solution.
The next one might be different. There might be a satellite up there waiting, with a button to be pushed. There were an awful lot of buttons waiting to be pushed, he told himself, buttons all over the world, controlling missiles already zeroed in on—well, on the people of the world.
The next one might occur in hours, or even minutes. The next one, the bombs might be in the air before the people even knew the buttons were for pushing.
Bill Howard got out his typewriter.
You've got a problem, you talk to a typewriter, if that's the only thing that will listen.