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And then there were those who thought we weren't doing enough. A German user suggested we paint our logo black. Steve Schimmel in our business development group argued that our response lacked a "human side"—that we should put a "message of sorrow" on the homepage. Cindy and I disagreed with both of them. It didn't feel appropriate to jump in so quickly with a condolence message, while news was still pouring out. Would we look insincere? Awkward? Or worse, would we seem to be capitalizing on a national tragedy? I didn't want to make any rash decisions we might later view as ill-conceived. Already I saw disturbing opportunism cropping up around us. One news organization asked to be moved higher on our list while others demanded to know why their competitors appeared and they didn't. The jostling and jockeying for position intensified by the hour.

I shared with Steve my belief that expressing personal grief through our website logo or a homepage message would trivialize an overwhelming tragedy. The wound was too raw for us to give voice to the pain we all felt. What I didn't tell him was that I felt it would be self-aggrandizing, as if Google were saying, "Look at us. Look how important we are. On this day of despair, we're making a statement on our homepage. Isn't that special?"

As usual, Sergey was there to help with my dilemma. "I'd like to put a mourning message on the site," he said. "Offering condolences and a link to more information." Okay then. I drafted the wording and sent it to him, along with my reservations about his timing. He brushed off my concerns and directed me to put up a link the next day, pointing to our expression of sorrow and support.

I went home that evening shaken and depressed. At least I had been able to share in the illusion that I had been doing something useful instead of sitting by and watching impotently.

"So this is how Google handles a crisis," I thought, as I monitored email late into the night. We had no comprehensive plan in place, but there was neither panic nor chaos. In this unique set of circumstances, people did what they did best and thought about how they could do more. We worked through problems, devised solutions, and calmly discussed contentious issues. Ultimately, our leaders made decisions that ended debate and we moved ahead.

The next day did not start well. The Washington Post interpreted our message directing users to their TVs to mean Google itself had been unable to handle increased traffic. Users asked why we had not modified our logo to honor those killed, or at least put a flag on our homepage to show solidarity with our countrymen. We changed our logo for less important things. Why not this? I've explained how I felt about a commemorative logo, but I had separate reservations about pasting a flag on the homepage. To me, waving the Stars and Stripes would provide immediate gratification but send the wrong message. I felt physically ill watching my country under attack, but I didn't want Google making a knee-jerk nationalistic gesture just to prove we were loyal Americans. Too many people had claimed moral superiority before 9/11 because they had flags in their hands—even as they acted to promote their own interests.

My dad flew night missions with the OSS over Germany and occupied France during World War II. He taught me that anyone can wave a flag; that the true measure of patriotism is what you actually do when your country needs you. I took that message to heart. Still, we at Google were Americans and we wanted to show our support—and it quickly became obvious that our users, at least those in this country, expected us to do so. I tried to figure out a way to do it appropriately.

Meanwhile, Tim Armstrong, the head of our New York sales team,* told us they were planning to reopen Google's midtown office the following day. They had emptied the kitchens and given the food to firefighters and police, but they were anxious to reestablish some sense of routine.

I gave