Then they began the Cravath Walk, just as their mentors, and generations of mentors before them, had.

Two by two, in dark suits and white shirts, they moved around the mahogany table in absolute silence. No one had died tonight. That was what made it worse.

At the head of the table, the senior partner opened a leather ledger.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “the nation has resisted our system for two hundred years.”

A younger partner glanced at the figures. “They still believe time belongs to them.”

“Time,” the senior partner replied, “is merely unbilled labor.”

The partners completed another circuit.

On the ledger's first page was a single line:

THE UNITED STATES: 330,000,000 ASSOCIATES NOT MEETING THEIR HOURS

“Every citizen,” she continued, “will account for every hour. Work. Sleep. Eating. Waiting. Commuting. Leisure. Nothing will remain unmeasured.”

“And if they refuse?”

The senior partner closed the ledger.

“They will be reminded that an hour is never free.”

Around the table, the partners stopped.

For the first time, they spoke together. Not a chant, exactly, but something colder.

“Time is billable. The partner is dead. The firm lives!”

And somewhere above them, in the sleeping city, every clock struck one.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5897454&forum_id=2锞兾告触锟界锟絇HPSESSID=962c303388ae8b5678383d002493727e#50094210)