I read a theory once that the human intellect was like peacock feathers. Just an extravagant display intended to attract a mate. All of art, literature, a bit of Mozart, William Shakespeare, Michelangelo, and the Empire State Building. Just an elaborate mating ritual. Maybe it doesn’t matter that we have accomplished so much for the basest of reasons. But, of course, the peacock can barely fly. It lives in the dirt, pecking insects out of the muck, consoling itself with its great beauty.
You can have all the intelligence in the world, but if nobody’s there to act on it, what’s it worth? Nothing.
Men don’t have the strategic intelligence to conduct a war between families. Men are less good at keeping secrets out of their lies.
Intelligence is a story. A story based on incomplete facts. Life or death decisions turn on whether people buy the story.[to Stuart]
All of this reliance on computerized threat analysis bothers me. In my universe, the artificial intelligence took orders from me, not the other way around.
Your intellect may have got you here, but it will be your instincts that will make you special agents.