Tommy mopped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. "Okay. Now listen: we
need a special run on all response data we have for tolerance levels.
Got that? How soon can we have it?"
Analysis shook his head. "We could only make a guess with the data so
far."
"Fine," said Tommy. "Make a guess."
"Give us three hours," said Analysis.
"You've got thirty minutes. Get going."
Turning back to Pete, Tommy rubbed his hands eagerly. "It's starting to
sell, boy. I don't know how strong or how good, but it's starting to
sell! With the tolerance levels to tell us how long we can expect this
program to quiet things down, we can give Charlie a deadline to crack
his differential factor, or it's the ax for Charlie." He chuckled to
himself, and paced the room in an overflow of nervous energy. "I can see
it now. Open shafts instead of elevators. A quick hop to Honolulu for an
afternoon on the beach, and back in time for supper. A hundred miles to
the gallon for the Sunday driver. When people begin _seeing_ what the
Grdznth are giving us, they'll welcome them with open arms."
"Hmmm," said Pete.
"Well, why won't they? The people just didn't trust us, that was all.
What does the man in the street know about transmatters? Nothing. But
give him one, and then try to take it away."
"Sure, sure," said Pete. "It sounds great. Just a little bit _too_
great."