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Friday, April 18, 2014
The Truth About Google X: An Exclusive Look Behind The Secretive Lab's Closed Doors
The Truth About Google X: An Exclusive Look Behind The Secretive Lab's Closed Doors
Space
elevators, teleportation, hoverboards, and driverless cars: The
top-secret Google X innovation lab opens up about what it does--and how
it thinks.
Astro Teller is sharing a story about something bad. Or maybe
it's something good. At Google X, it's sometimes hard to know the
difference.
Teller is the scientist who directs day-to-day work at the search
giant's intensely private innovation lab, which is devoted to finding
unusual solutions to huge global problems. He isn't the president or
chairman of X, however; his actual title, as his etched-glass business
card proclaims, is Captain of Moonshots--"moonshots" being his catchall
description for audacious innovations that have a slim chance of
succeeding but might revolutionize the world if they do. It is evening
in Mountain View, California, dinnertime in a noisy restaurant, and
Teller is recounting over the din how earlier in the day he had to give
some unwelcome news to his bosses, Google cofounder Sergey Brin and CFO Patrick Pichette. "It was a complicated meeting," says Teller,
43, sighing a bit. "I was telling them that one of our groups was
having a hard time, that we needed to course-correct, and that it was
going to cost some money. Not a trivial amount." Teller's financial team
was worried; so was he. But Pichette listened to the problem and
essentially said, "Thanks for telling me as soon as you knew. We'll make
it work."
At first, it seems Teller's point is that the tolerance for setbacks
at Google X is uncharacteristically high--a situation helped along by
his bosses' zeal for the work being done there and by his parent
company's extraordinary, almost ungodly, profitability. But this is
actually just part of the story. There happens to be a slack line--a low
tightrope--slung between trees outside the Google X offices. After the
meeting, the three men walked outside, took off their shoes, and gave
the line a go for 20 minutes. Pichette is quite good at walking back and
forth; Brin
slightly less so; Teller not at all. But they all took turns balancing
on the rope, falling frequently, and getting back on. The slack line is
groin-high. "It looked like a fail video from YouTube," Teller says. And
that's really his message here. "When these guys are willing to fall,
groan, and get up--and they're in their socks?" He leans back and
pauses, as if to say: This is the essence of Google X. When the
leadership can fail in full view, "then it gives everyone permission to
be more like that."
Failure is not precisely the goal at Google X. But in many respects
it is the means. By the time Teller and I speak, I have spent most of
the day inside his lab, which no journalist has previously been allowed
to explore. Throughout the morning and afternoon I visited a variety of
work spaces and talked at length with members of the Google X Rapid
Evaluation Team, or "Rapid Eval," as they're known, about how they vet
ideas and test out the most promising ones, primarily by doing
everything humanly and technologically possible to make them fall apart.
Rapid Eval is the start of the innovative process at X; it is a method
that emphasizes rejecting ideas much more than affirming them. That is
why it seemed to me that X--which is what those who work there usually
call it--sometimes resembled a cult of failure. As Rich DeVaul,
the head of Rapid Eval, says: "Why put off failing until tomorrow or
next week if you can fail now?" Over dinner, Teller tells me he
sometimes gives a hug to people who admit mistakes or defeat in group
meetings.
X does not employ your typical Silicon Valley types. Google already
has a large lab division, Google Research, that is devoted mainly to
computer science and Internet technologies. The distinction is sometimes
framed this way: Google Research is mostly bits; Google X is mostly
atoms. In other words, X is tasked with making actual objects that
interact with the physical world, which to a certain extent gives
logical coherence to the four main projects that have so far emerged
from X: driverless cars, Google Glass, high-altitude Wi-Fi balloons, and glucose-monitoring contact lenses.
Mostly, X seeks out people who want to build stuff, and who won't get
easily daunted. Inside the lab, now more than 250 employees strong, I
met an idiosyncratic troupe of former park rangers, sculptors,
philosophers, and machinists; one X scientist has won two Academy Awards
for special effects. Teller himself has written a novel, worked in
finance, and earned a PhD in artificial intelligence. One recent hire
spent five years of his evenings and weekends building a helicopter in
his garage. It actually works, and he flew it regularly, which seems
insane to me. But his technology skills alone did not get him the job.
The helicopter did. "The classic definition of an expert is someone who
knows more and more about less and less until they know everything about
nothing," says DeVaul. "And people like that can be extremely useful in
a very focused way. But these are really not X people. What we want, in
a sense, are people who know less and less about more and more."
If there's a master plan behind X, it's that a frictional arrangement
of ragtag intellects is the best hope for creating products that can
solve the world's most intractable issues. Yet Google X, as Teller
describes it, is an experiment in itself--an effort to reconfigure the
process by which a corporate lab functions, in this case by taking
incredible risks across a wide variety of technological domains, and by
not hesitating to stray far from its parent company's business. We don't
yet know if this will prove to be genius or folly. There's actually no
historical model, no precedent, for what these people are doing.
But in some ways that makes sense. Google finds itself at a juncture
in history that has not come before, and may not come again. The company
is almost unimaginably rich and stocked with talent; it is hitting its
peak of influence at a moment when networks and computing power and
artificial intelligence are coalescing in what many technologists
describe as (to borrow the Valley's most popular meme) "the second
machine age." In addition, it is trying hard to develop another huge
core business to augment its massive search division. So why not do it
through X? To Teller, this failure-loving lab has simply stepped into
the breach. Small companies don't feel they have the resources to take
moonshots. Big companies think it'll rattle shareholders. Government
leaders believe there's not enough money, or that Congress will
characterize a misstep or failure as a scandal. These days, when it
comes to Hail Mary innovation, "Everyone thinks it's somebody's else's
job," Teller says.
It is worth noting that X's moonshots are not as purely altruistic as
Google likes to make them sound. While self-driving cars will almost
certainly save lives, for instance, they will also free up drivers to do
web searches and use Gmail. Wi-Fi balloons could result in a billion
more Google users. Still, it's hard not to appreciate that these ideas,
along with others coming from X, are breathtakingly idealistic. When I
ask Teller why Google has chosen to invest in X rather than something
that might appeal more to Wall Street, he dismisses the premise. Then he
cracks a smile. "That's a false choice," he says. "Why do we have to
pick?" Google X is situated at the edge of the Google
campus, housed mostly in a couple of three-story red-brick buildings.
The lab has no sign in front, just as it has no official website ("What
would we put on the website, anyway?" Teller asks). The main building's
entrance leads into a small, self-serve coffee bar. The aesthetic is
modern, austere, industrial. To the left is a cavernous room with
dozens of cubicles and several conference rooms; to the right is a bike
rack and a lunchroom with a stern
warning posted that only X employees
are allowed. Otherwise, there's little indication you're in a
supersecret lab. Most of the collaborative workshops are downstairs, in
high-ceilinged rooms with whimsical names such as "Castle Grayskull,"
and are cluttered with electronic paraphernalia and Xers bent over
laptops.
The origins of X date to around 2009, when Brin and Google cofounder Larry Page
conceived of a position called Director of Other; this person would
oversee ideas far from Google's core search business. This notion
evolved into X around 2010, thanks to Google engineer Sebastian Thrun's
effort, backed by Brin and Page, to build a driverless car. The X lab
grew up around that endeavor, with Thrun
in charge. Thrun chose Teller as one of his codirectors, but when Thrun
was drawn deeper into developing the car technology (and later into his
online educational startup, Udacity), he gave up on overseeing other X projects. That's when Teller assumed day-to-day responsibilities.
There are differing explanations for what the X actually stands for.
At first it was simply a placeholder for a better name, but these days
it usually denotes the search for solutions that are better by a factor
of 10. Some of the Xers I met, however, think of the X as representing
an organization willing to build technologies that are 10 years away
from making a large impact.
This in itself is fairly unique. Once upon a time, corporate labs
invested a chunk of their R&D budget in risky, long-term projects,
but an increasing focus on quarterly earnings, and the realization that
it can be exceedingly hard to recoup an investment in far-off research,
ended almost all such efforts.
These days, it's considered more sensible
for a company to fund short-term research--or if it wants to think far
into the future, to either buy rights to an embryonic idea that arises
from university research or a government lab, or to swallow up an
innovative startup. Teller and Brin are not averse to doing this; for
example, the wind-energy company Makani
was recently bought by Google and folded into X. But Google and X have
often rejected the conventional business wisdom in favor of hatching
their own wild-eyed research schemes, and then waiting patiently for
them to mature. Recently, when Page was challenged on an earnings call
about the sums he was pouring into R&D, he made no effort to excuse
it. "My struggle in general is to get people to spend money on long-term
R&D," he said, noting that the amounts he was investing were modest
in light of Google's profits. Then he chided the financial community:
Shouldn't they be asking him to make more big, risky, long-term
investments, not fewer? Rich DeVaul heads the Rapid Evaluation team. "If there's a completely crazy, lame idea, then it's probably coming from me."
Generally speaking, there are three criteria that X projects share.
All must address a problem that affects millions--or better yet,
billions--of people. All must utilize a radical solution that has at
least a component that resembles science fiction. And all must tap
technologies that are now (or very nearly) obtainable. But to DeVaul,
the head of Rapid Eval, there's another, more unifying principle that
connects the three criteria: No idea should be incremental. This sounds
terribly clichéd, DeVaul admits; the Silicon Valley refrain of "taking
huge risks" is getting hackneyed and hollow. But the rejection of
incrementalism, he says, is not because he and his colleagues believe
it's pointless for ideological reasons. They believe it for practical
reasons. "It's so hard to do almost anything in this world," he says.
"Getting out of bed in the morning can be hard for me. But attacking a
problem that is twice as big or 10 times as big is not twice or 10 times
as hard."
DeVaul insists that it's often just as easy, or easier, to make
inroads on the biggest problems "than to try to optimize the next 5% or
2% out of some process." Think about cars, he tells me. If you want to
design a car that gets 80 mpg, it requires a lot of work, yet it really
doesn't address the fundamental problem of global fuel resources and
emissions. But if you want to design a car that gets 500 mpg, which
actually does attack the problem, you are by necessity freed from
convention, since you can't possibly improve an existing automotive
design by such a degree. Instead you start over, reexamining what a car
really is. You think of different kinds of motors and fuels, or of
space-age materials of such gossamer weight and iron durability that
they alter the physics of transportation. Or you dump the idea of cars
altogether in favor of a substitute. And then maybe, just maybe, you
come up with something worthy of X.
DeVaul is leaning back on a chair in a big ground-floor conference
room at X. He's brought me here to demonstrate how the Rapid Eval team
discusses ideas. We're joined around an oblong wood table by two of his
colleagues, Dan Piponi and Mitch Heinrich. The men are a study in
intellectual contrasts. Piponi, 47, is soft-spoken, laconic, British--a
mathematician and theoretical physicist and the winner of those Oscars.
Even among the bright minds at Google X, he's regarded as freakishly
smart. Heinrich, the lab's young design guru, gives off an affable
art-school vibe. On his own initiative, he's built what's known as the
design kitchen, a large fabrication shop that's stocked with 3-D
printers, table saws, and sophisticated lathes in a building adjacent to
the primary X lab. He brings a plastic tub stuffed with old eyeglass
frames to the Rapid Eval session. "These were some early prototypes for
Glass," he explains, randomly pulling out some circuit boards and a few
terrifically ugly designs. They weren't intended for the market, he
says, but to show his colleagues that what they were conceptualizing
could indeed be built.
DeVaul, 43, completes the trio. He has a PhD from MIT and worked at
Apple for several years before coming to Google. It is difficult to
figure out precisely what he studied in college--after 10 minutes of
explaining, it sounds like some mashup of design, physics, anthropology,
and machine learning. As such, he can talk a blue streak on a dazzling
range of topics: crime, communications, computers, material science,
robotics. It was DeVaul, in fact, who came up with the idea for Project
Loon, as those Wi-Fi balloons are officially known. He tried
desperately to make it fail on technological grounds but found he could
not, so he agreed to run the project for about a year before returning
to Rapid Eval.
In some respects, watching his group in action is like watching an
improv team warm up--ideas are bounced about quickly, analytically,
kinetically, in an effort to make them stick or lead toward something
better. The team on most Rapid Eval sessions numbers about half a dozen,
including DeVaul, Piponi, and Heinrich (and sometimes Teller); they
meet for lunch once a week to discuss suggestions that have bubbled up
from within X or have filtered in from outside--from their parent
company, say, or somebody's acquaintance in academia. Later in the
week, one or two of the best suggestions are brought up again more
formally for further consideration. Mostly the team looks at the scale
of the issue, the impact of the proposed fix, and the technological
risks. Will it really solve the problem? Can the thing actually be
built? Then they consider the social risks. If we can build it, will
it--can it--actually be used?
There's a reason they factor these questions into their early
calculus. When you're explicitly trying to imagine products that have no
real counterparts in our culture, the obstacles have to be imagined,
too. With driverless cars, for instance, there remain unresolved
complexities of state laws, infrastructure, and insurance; for Google
Glass, there are huge ongoing privacy issues. But if the team believes
these kinds of hurdles are surmountable and is still sufficiently
curious about a technology by the end of the discussion, they'll ask
Heinrich or Piponi to build a crude prototype, ideally in a few days.
Once they're satisfied that it can work, they move toward getting the
brass to officially commission the project. They will not say how often
this has happened, except that it's exceedingly rare. "It's a really
high bar to say, 'This is going to be a new Google X project,' " says
DeVaul. And that doesn't mean it won't be killed as it evolves. It's a
much higher bar to actually launch a Google X project, he points out.
"Sometimes the problems at Google X are very easy to frame, such as
two-thirds of the world does not have reliable, affordable Internet
access." That's what led him to Project Loon. "But some problems are
easier to see in the rearview mirror. Imagine how hard it would be to
explain to your pre-smartphone self how much this is going to change
your life." DeVaul says this is the type of thinking that led to Google
Glass. "It's a matter of looking back from the future, where everyone
walks around with smart glasses and no one leaves their house without
them. And then it becomes obvious: 'Well, of course I want to be
connected to information, but in a way that's minimally invasive, and
minimally imposes on my attention.'"
He makes it sound quite reasonable. But this is also the point in the
conversation when we start talking, quite seriously, about hoverboards
and space elevators. DeVaul is an avid skateboarder, and building a hoverboard
is something that he has long imagined. "I just wanted one," he tells
me, shrugging. When he brought it up for discussion last year--"If
there's a completely crazy, lame idea, then it's probably coming from
me," he says--the group actually discerned some practical applications.
In industrial settings, moving heavy things on a frictionless platform
could be not only valuable but transformative. "Imagine a giant
fulfillment center like Amazon's, where all the pallets can levitate and
move around," DeVaul says. "Or what about a lab where all the heavy
equipment would come to me?"
"Dan, show him the hoverboard you built," says Heinrich.
"Right," says Piponi, sitting up and clearing his throat. In front of
him is a small, shiny rectangle, about the size of a hardcover book. On
the surface is a tight configuration of circular magnets. "So the first
question here relates to the physics," Piponi says. "Can you actually
have an object hovering about? And so people try really hard with
magnets--to find some arrangement that keeps something hovering." This
is the logic behind the superfast magnetic-levitation trains now used in
China and Japan. But these "mag-lev" systems have a stabilizing
structure that keeps trains in place as they hover and move forward in
only one direction. That couldn't quite translate into an open floor
plan of magnets that keep a hoverboard steadily aloft and free to move
in any direction. One problem, as Piponi explains, is that magnets tend
to keep shifting polarities, so your hoverboard would constantly flip
over as you floated around moving from a state of repulsion to
attraction with the magnets. Any skateboarder could tell you what that
means: Your hoverboard would suck.
But that's exactly the sort of problem X is designed to attack.
"There are loopholes in this theorem that you have to find," Piponi
says. "There are materials that are kind of weird, that don't behave
like magnets normally do." Piponi discovered that a very thin slice of a
certain type of graphite would actually work well on a small bed of
magnets. So he built one for the Rapid Eval team. He pushes his small
hoverboard across the table to me, and I try it. The graphite slice, not
much larger than a quarter, floats slightly above the magnets, gliding
in any direction with the most ethereal push. When DeVaul first saw
this, he tells me, he was astounded.
Yet by that point, Piponi had already moved on. As he did the
calculations involved in expanding the small hoverboard up to a usable
size, the physics suggested that at a certain point the weight of the
board would knock it off its cushion of air. Other technologies could
conceivably help (you might try using special materials at supercool
temperatures), but the team decided that would create huge additional
costs and complications--costs that would not be justified by the
project's relatively modest social and economic impact. So the Google X
hoverboard was shelved. "When we let it go, it's a positive thing,"
DeVaul says. "We're saying, 'This is great: Now we get to work on other
things.'"
Like space elevators, something X was widely rumored to be working on but has never confirmed until now. "You know what a space elevator
is, right?" DeVaul asks. He ticks off the essential facts--a cable
attached to a satellite fixed in space, tens of thousands of miles above
Earth. To DeVaul, it would no doubt satisfy the X criteria of something
straight out of sci-fi. And it would presumably be transformative by
reducing space travel to a fraction of its present cost: Transport ships
would clip on to the cable and cruise up to a space station. One could
go up while another was heading down. "It would be a massive capital
investment," DeVaul says, but after that "it could take you from ground
to orbit with a net of basically zero energy. It drives down the
space-access costs, operationally, to being incredibly low."
Not surprisingly, the team encountered a stumbling block. If scaling
problems are what brought hoverboards down to earth, material-science
issues crashed the space elevator. The team knew the cable would have to
be exceptionally strong-- "at least a hundred times stronger than the
strongest steel that we have," by Piponi's calculations. He found one
material that could do this: carbon nanotubes. But no one has
manufactured a perfectly formed carbon nanotube strand longer than a
meter. And so elevators "were put in a deep freeze," as Heinrich says,
and the team decided to keep tabs on any advances in the carbon nanotube
field. Mitch Heinrich created Google X's design kitchen, where he and other team members build simple prototypes for big ideas.
The larger lesson here is that any Google X idea that hinges on some
kind of new development in material science cannot proceed. This is not
the case with electronics--X could go forward with a device that depends
upon near-term improvements in computing capability because Moore's law
predicts an exponential increase in computing power. That is why
DeVaul's team is confident that Google Glass will get less awkward with
each passing year. But there is no way to accurately predict when a new
material or manufacturing process will be invented. It could happen next
year, or it could be 100 years.
The conversation eventually drifts to how the team had at one point
debated the pros and cons of taking on teleportation. Yes, like in Star Trek.
As with that show's Transporter, the molecules of a person or thing
could theoretically be "beamed" across a physical distance with the help
of some kind of scanning technology and a teleportation device. None of
which really exists, of course. Piponi, after some study, concluded
that teleportation violates several laws of physics. But out of those
discussions came a number of insights--too complicated to explain
here--into encrypted communications that would be resistant to
eavesdropping, a matter of great interest to Google (especially in light
of recent NSA–spying revelations). So bad ideas lead to good ideas, too. "I like to look at these problems as ladders," DeVaul says.
At the moment, the Rapid Eval team is watching the work of certain
academics who are attempting to create superstrong, ultralight
materials.
One Caltech professor, Julia Greer, is working on something called
"nanotrusses" that DeVaul is particularly enthusiastic about. "It would
completely change how we build buildings," he says. "Because if I have
something that's insanely strong and incredibly compact, maybe I could
prefabricate an entire building; it fits into a little box, I take it to
the construction site, and it unfolds like origami and becomes a
building that is stronger than anything we have right now and holds a
volume as big as this building." There's a moment of silence in the
room.
"I know that sounds completely insane," he adds. But I'm not sure it sounds crazy to him. At one point, DeVaul asks if I have any ideas of my
own for Rapid Eval consideration. I had been warned in advance that he
might ask this, and I came prepared with a suggestion: a "smart bullet"
that could protect potential shooting victims and reduce gun violence,
both accidental and intentional. You have self-driving cars that avoid
harm, I say. Why not self-driving ballistics? DeVaul doesn't say it's
the stupidest thing he's ever heard, which is a relief. What ensues is a
conversation that feels like a rapid ascent up that imaginary ladder.
We quickly debate the pros and cons of making guns intelligent (that
technology already exists to a certain degree) versus making bullets
intelligent (likely much more difficult). We move from a specific
discussion of "self-pulverizing" bullets with tiny, embedded hypodermic
needles that deliver stun-drugs (DeVaul's idea) to potentially using
sensors and the force of gravity to bring a bullet to the ground before
it can strike the wrong target (Heinrich's). Then comes the notion of
separating the bullet's striker from the explosive charge with a remote
disabling electronic switch (Piponi). The tenor soon changes, though. We
start talking about smart holsters for police officers, and then
intelligent gun sights--something that firearms owners might actually
want to buy. They think that idea might even be worth a rapid prototype.
But we also debate the political and marketplace viability of bullet
technology--who would purchase it, who would object to it, what kind of
impact it might have. Eventually it becomes clear that in many ways,
appearances often to the contrary, Google X tries hard to remain on the
practical side of crazy. Obi Felten's official title is Head of Getting Moonshots Ready for Contact With the Real World.
Later in the day, I take a walk around the Google campus with Obi
Felten, 41, who is the team member who tries to keep the group grounded.
In fact, DeVaul refers to her as "the normal person" in Rapid Eval
meetings, someone who can bring everyone back to earth by asking simple
questions like, Is it legal? Will anyone buy this? Will anyone like
this? Felten is not an engineer; she worked in marketing for Google in
Europe before coming to X. "My actual title now," she tells me, "is Head
of Getting Moonshots Ready for Contact With the Real World." One thing
Felten struggles with is that there's no real template for how a company
should bring these kinds of radical technologies to market. ("If you
find a model," she says, "let me know.") Fortunately for X, not
everything has to evolve into a huge source of revenue. "The portfolio
has to make money," Felten explains, but not necessarily each product.
"Some of these will be better businesses than others, if you want to
measure in terms of dollars. Others might make a huge impact on the
world, but it's not a massive market."
Later this year, X hopes to announce a top-secret new project that is
likely to fall into that latter category. What will it be? There are no
discernible clues. In my own conversations, I could only glean certain
hints--that they're extremely curious about transportation and clean
energy, and that they are especially serious about creating better
medical diagnostics, rather than medical treatments, because they see a
far greater impact. At one point, I walked through a Google X
user-experience lab, where psychologists gain insights from volunteers
trying possible forthcoming technologies. A large object, about, oh, the
size of the Maltese Falcon, had been wrapped in black plastic. Go
figure.
Meanwhile, consider that X has an overwhelming task on its hands
already. The organization must move all of its unveiled projects at
least one square ahead this year. Project Loon--which has not finalized a
business plan yet--has apparently drawn interest from most of the
telecom companies in the world, but is still not technically ready for
scaling up. (It was unveiled in part because the patents were about to
be made public, and Google preferred to disclose it on its own terms.)
Google Glass, the X product closest to commercialization, and
self-driving cars, which are much farther away, have both sparked
extraordinary public interest, yet it is impossible to say if or when
they'll succeed as businesses, or whether they'll have that 10-times
impact within a 10-year period.
That evening at dinner with Teller, I bring up all of these issues.
To me, the fundamental challenge of fashioning extreme solutions to very
big problems is that society tends to move incrementally, even as many
fields of technology seem to advance exponentially. An innovation that
saves us time or money or improves our health might always have a
fighting chance at success. But with Glass, we see a product that seems
to alter not only our safety and efficiency--like with self-driving
cars--but our humanity. This seems an even bigger obstacle than some of
the more practical issues that the lab grapples with, but the Xers don't
seem overly concerned. Teller, in fact, contends that Glass could make
us more human. He thinks it solves a huge problem--getting those square
rectangles out of our pockets and making technology more usable, more
available, less obstructive. But isn't it possible that Glass is the
wrong answer to the right problem? "Of course," Teller says. "But we're
not done. And it's possible that we missed. I mean, I know we missed in
some ways."
The part of the X process that colleagues like Obi Felten think
about, he says, is also meant to be iterative. "It's to say to the
world: What do you think? How can we make this better? It's part of us
being open to being wrong, because it's way easier, and way cheaper, and
way more fun to find out now that we missed than to find out years from
now, with an incredible amount of additional expense and emotional
investment." Teller says he calls X's ideas "moonshots" for a reason.
"If one of Google X's projects were a home run, became everything we
wanted, I would be really happy," he says. "I would be overjoyed if it
happened with two."
At one point, I mention my own moonshot to Teller, that smart bullet
that DeVaul's team had talked through earlier in the day. It wasn't a
disaster, I say, but it wasn't much of a success, either. "Well, that's
entirely appropriate," Teller says, sympathetically. "Most ideas don't
work out. Almost all ideas don't work out. So it's okay if yours didn't
work out." He thinks for a moment. "How about instead of a bullet it
delivers a deadly toxin that could be reversed in a week?" It wouldn't
stop bad guys immediately, he says, but once they were shot, they would
have to go turn themselves in to get the antidote. He mulls it over for a
moment more. "I don't know," he says, already seeing the obstacles
ahead. "I'm just brainstorming."
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