The Grand Ballroom of the Mark Hopkins Hotel was darkened for the after-dinner speeches. The audience was elegant, the men in tuxedos, the women in ball gowns. Beneath the ornate chandeliers, the voice of Nicholas Drake boomed from the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is no exaggeration to say that we face an environmental crisis of unprecedented proportions. Our forests are disappearing. Our lakes and rivers are polluted. The plants and animals that make up our biosphere are vanishing at unprecedented rates. Forty thousand species become extinct every year. That’s fifty species every single day. At present rates, we will lose half of all species on our planet in the next few decades. It is the greatest extinction in the history of earth.

“And what is the texture of our own lives? Our food is contaminated with lethal pesticides. Our crops are failing from global warming. Our weather is growing worse, and more severe. Flooding, droughts, hurricanes, tornadoes. All around the globe. Our sea levels are rising—twenty-five feet in the next century, and possibly more. And most fearsome of all, new scientific evidence points to the specter of abrupt climate change, as a result of our destructive behavior. In short, ladies and gentlemen, we are confronted by a genuine global catastrophe for our planet.”

Sitting at the center table, Peter Evans looked around at the audience. They were staring down at their plates, yawning, leaning over and talking to one another. Drake wasn’t getting a lot of attention.

“They’ve heard it before,” Morton growled. He shifted his heavy frame and gave a soft belch. He had been drinking steadily through the evening, and was now quite drunk.

“…Loss of biodiversity, shrinking of habitat, destruction of the ozone layer…”

Nicholas Drake appeared tall and ungainly, his tuxedo ill-fitting. The collar of his shirt was bunched up around his scrawny neck. As always, he gave the impression of an impoverished but dedicated academic, a latter-day Ichabod Crane. Evans thought no one would ever guess that Drake was paid a third of a million dollars a year to head the Fund, plus another hundred thousand in expenses. Or that he had no science background at all. Nick Drake was a trial attorney, one of five who had started NERF many years before. And like all trial attorneys, he knew the importance of not dressing too well.

“…the erosion of bio-reservoirs, the rise of ever more exotic and lethal diseases…”

“I wish he’d hurry up,” Morton said. He drummed his fingers on the table. Evans said nothing. He had attended enough of these functions to know that Morton was always tense if he had to speak.

At the podium, Drake was saying “…glimmers of hope, faint rays of positive energy, and none more positive and hopeful than the man whose lifelong dedication we are here to honor tonight…”

“Can I get another drink?” Morton said, finishing the last of his martini. It was his sixth. He set the glass on the table with a thud. Evans turned to look for the waiter, raising his hand. He was hoping the waiter wouldn’t come over in time. George had had enough.

“…for three decades has dedicated his considerable resources and energy to making our world a better, healthier, saner place. Ladies and gentlemen, the National Environmental Resource Fund is proud…”

“Ah screw, never mind,” Morton said. He tensed his body, ready to push back from the table. “I hate making a fool of myself, even for a good cause.”

“Why should you make a fool of—” Evans began.

“…my good friend and colleague and this year’s concerned citizen…Mr. George Morton!”

The room filled with applause, and a spotlight hit Morton as he stood and headed toward the podium, a hunched bear of a man, physically powerful, solemn, head down. Evans was alarmed when Morton stumbled on the first step, and for a moment he feared his boss would fall backward, but Morton regained his balance, and as he stepped to the stage he seemed all right. He shook hands with Drake and moved to the podium, gripping it on both sides with his large hands. Morton looked out at the room, turning his head from side to side, surveying the audience. He did not speak.

He just stood there, and said nothing.

Ann Garner, sitting beside Evans, gave him a nudge. “Is he all right?”

“Oh yes. Absolutely,” Evans said, nodding. But in truth, he wasn’t sure.

Finally George Morton began to speak. “I’d like to thank Nicholas Drake and the National Environmental Resource Fund for this award, but I don’t feel I deserve it. Not with all the work that remains to be done. Do you know, my friends, that we know more about the moon than we do about the Earth’s oceans? That’s a real environmental problem. We don’t know enough about the planet we depend on for our very lives. But as Montaigne said three hundred years ago, ‘Nothing is so firmly believed as that which is least known.’”

Evans thought: Montaigne? George Morton quoting Montaigne?

In the glare of the spotlight, Morton was distinctly weaving back and forth. He was gripping the podium for balance. The room was absolutely silent. People were not moving at all. Even the waiters had stopped moving between the tables. Evans held his breath.

“All of us in the environmental movement,” Morton said, “have seen many wonderful victories over the years. We have witnessed the creation of the EPA. We have seen the air and water made cleaner, sewage treatment improved, toxic dumps cleaned up, and we have regulated common poisons like lead for the safety of all. These are real victories, my friends. We take justifiable pride in them. And we know more needs to be done.”

The audience was relaxing. Morton was moving onto familiar ground.

“But will the work get done? I am not sure. I know my mood has been dark, since the death of my beloved wife, Dorothy.”

Evans sat bolt upright in his chair. At the next table, Herb Lowenstein looked shocked, his mouth open. George Morton had no wife. Or rather, he had six ex-wives—none named Dorothy.

“Dorothy urged me to spend my money wisely. I always thought I did. Now I am less sure. I said before that we don’t know enough. But I fear that today, the watchword of NERF has become, We don’t sue enough.”

You could hear breath sucked in sharply all around the room.

“NERF is a law firm. I don’t know if you realize that. It was started by lawyers and it is run by lawyers. But I now believe money is better spent on research than litigation. And that is why I am withdrawing my funding for NERF, and why I am—”

For the next few moments Morton could not be heard above the excited jabber of the crowd. Everyone was talking loudly. There were scattered boos; some guests got up to leave. Morton continued to talk, seemingly oblivious to the effect he was having. Evans caught a few phrases: “…one environmental charity is under FBI investigation… complete lack of oversight…”

Ann Garner leaned over and hissed, “Get him off there.”

“What do you want me to do?” Evans whispered.

“Go and get him. He’s obviously drunk.”

“That may be, but I can’t—”

“You have to stop this.”

But on the stage, Drake was already moving forward, saying “All right, thank you, George—”

“Because to tell the truth right now—”

“Thank you, George,” Drake said again, moving closer. He was actually pushing against Morton’s bulk, trying to shove him away from the podium.

“Okay, okay,” Morton said, clinging to the podium. “I said what I did for Dorothy. My dear dead wife—”

“Thank you, George.” Drake was applauding now, holding his hands up at head height, nodding to the audience to join with him. “Thank you.”

“…who I miss desperately…”

“Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in thanking—”

“Yeah, okay, I’m leaving.”

To muted applause, Morton shambled off the stage. Drake immediately stepped up to the podium and signaled the band. They started into a rousing rendition of Billy Joel’s “You May Be Right,” which someone had told them was Morton’s favorite song. It was, but it seemed a poor choice under the circumstances.

Herb Lowenstein leaned over from the next table and grabbed Evans by the shoulder, pulling him close. “Listen,” he whispered fiercely. “Get him out of here.”

“I will,” Evans said. “Don’t worry.”

“Did you know this was going to happen?”

“No, I swear to God.”

Lowenstein released Evans just as George Morton returned to the table. The assembled group was stunned. But Morton was singing cheerfully with the music, “You may be right, I may be crazy…”

“Come on, George,” Evans said, standing up. “Let’s get out of here.”

Morton ignored him. “…But it just may be a loo-natic you’re looking for…”

“George? What do you say?” Evans took him by the arm. “Let’s go.”

“…Turn out the light, don’t try to save me…”

“I’m not trying to save you,” Evans said.

“Then how about another damn martini?” Morton said, no longer singing. His eyes were cold, a little resentful. “I think I fucking earned it.”

“Harry will have one for you in the car,” Evans said, steering Morton away from the table. “If you stay here, you’ll have to wait for it. And you don’t want to wait for a drink right now…” Evans continued talking, and Morton allowed himself to be led out of the room.

“…too late to fight,” he sang, “too late to change me…”

Before they could get out of the room, there was a TV camera with lights shining in their faces, and two reporters shoving small tape recorders in front of Morton. Everybody was yelling questions. Evans put his head down and said, “Excuse us, sorry, coming through, excuse us…”

Morton never stopped singing. They made their way through the hotel lobby. The reporters were running in front of them, trying to get some distance ahead, so they could film them walking forward. Evans gripped Morton firmly by the elbow as Morton sang:

“I was only having fun, wasn’t hurting anyone, and we all enjoyed the weekend for a change…”

“This way,” Evans said, heading for the door.

“I was stranded in the combat zone…”

And then at last they were through the swinging doors, and outside in the night. Morton stopped singing abruptly when the cold air hit him. They waited for his limousine to pull around. Sarah came out, and stood beside Morton. She didn’t say anything, she just put her hand on his arm.

Then the reporters came out, and the lights came on again. And then Drake burst through the doors, saying “God damn it, George—”

He broke off when he saw the cameras. He glared at Morton, turned, and went back inside. The cameras remained on, but the three of them just stood there. It was awkward, just waiting. After what seemed like an eternity, the limousine pulled up. Harry came around, and opened the door for George.

“Okay, George,” Evans said.

“No, not tonight.”

“Harry’s waiting, George.”

“I said, not tonight.”

There was a deep-throated growl in the darkness, and a silver Ferrari convertible pulled up alongside the limousine.

“My car,” Morton said. He started down the stairs, lurching a bit.

Sarah said, “George, I don’t think—”

But he was singing again: “And you told me not to drive, but I made it home alive, so you said that only proves that I’m in-sayyy-nnne.”

One of the reporters muttered, “He’s insane, all right.”

Evans followed Morton, very concerned. Morton gave the parking attendant a hundred dollar bill, saying “A twenty for you, my good man.” He fumbled with the Ferrari door. “These crummy Italian imports.” Then he got behind the wheel of the convertible, gunned the engine, and smiled. “Ah, a manly sound.”

Evans leaned over the car. “George, let Harry drive you. Besides,” he added, “don’t we need to talk about something?”

“We do not.”

“But I thought—”

“Kid, get out of my way.” The camera lights were still on them. But Morton moved so that he was in the shadow cast by Evans’s body. “You know, the Buddhists have a saying.”

“What saying?”

“Remember it, kid. Goes like this: ‘All that matters is not remote from where the Buddha sits.’”

“George, I really think you should not be driving.”

“Will you remember what I just said to you?”

“Yes.”

“Wisdom of the ages. Good-bye, kid.”

And he accelerated, roaring out of the parking lot as Evans jumped back. The Ferrari squealed around the corner, ignoring a stop sign, and was gone.

“Peter, come on.”

Evans turned, and saw Sarah standing by the limousine. Harry was getting in behind the wheel. Evans got in the back seat with Sarah, and they drove off after Morton.

The Ferrari turned left at the bottom of the hill, disappearing around the corner. Harry accelerated, handling the huge limousine with skill.

Evans said, “Do you know where he’s going?”

“No idea,” she said.

“Who wrote his speech?”

“He did.”

“Really?”

“He was working in the house all day yesterday, and he wouldn’t let me see what he was doing…”

“Jesus,” Evans said. “Montaigne?”

“He had a book of quotations out.”

“Where’d he come up with Dorothy?”

She shook her head. “I have no idea.”

They passed Golden Gate Park. Traffic was light; the Ferrari was moving fast, weaving among the cars. Ahead was the Golden Gate Bridge, brightly lit in the night. Morton accelerated. The Ferrari was going almost ninety miles an hour.

“He’s going to Marin,” Sarah said.

Evans’s cell phone rang. It was Drake. “Will you tell me what the hell that was all about?”

“I’m sorry, Nick. I don’t know.”

“Was he serious? About withdrawing his support?”

“I think he was.”

“That’s unbelievable. He’s obviously suffered a nervous breakdown.”

“I couldn’t say.”

“I was afraid of this,” Drake said. “I was afraid something like this might happen. You remember, on the plane coming back from Iceland? I said it to you, and you told me I shouldn’t worry. Is that your opinion now? That I shouldn’t worry?”

“I don’t know what you’re asking, Nick.”

“Ann Garner said he signed some papers on the plane.”

“That’s right. He did.”

“Are they related to this sudden and inexplicable withdrawal of support for the organization that he loved and cherished?”

“He seems to have changed his mind about that,” Evans said.

“And why didn’t you tell me?”

“He instructed me not to.”

“Fuck you, Evans.”

“I’m sorry,” Evans said.

“Not as sorry as you will be.”

The phone went dead. Drake had hung up. Evans flipped the phone shut.

Sarah said, “Drake is mad?”

“Furious.”

Off the bridge, Morton headed west, away from the lights of the freeway, onto a dark road skirting the cliffs. He was driving faster than ever.

Evans said to Harry, “Do you know where we are?”

“I believe we’re in a state park.”

Harry was trying to keep up, but on this narrow, twisting road, the limousine was no match for the Ferrari. It moved farther and farther ahead. Soon they could see only the taillights, disappearing around curves a quarter mile ahead.

“We’re going to lose him,” Evans said.

“I doubt it, sir.”

But the limousine fell steadily behind. After Harry took one turn too fast—the big rear end lost traction and swung wide toward a cliff’s edge—they were obliged to slow down even more. They were in a desolate area now. The night was dark and the cliffs deserted. A rising moon put a streak of silver on the black water far below.

Up ahead, they no longer saw any taillights. It seemed they were alone on the dark road.

They came around a curve, and saw the next curve a hundred yards ahead—obscured by billowing gray smoke.

“Oh no,” Sarah said, putting her hand to her mouth.

The Ferrari had spun out, struck a tree, and flipped over. It now lay upside down, a crumpled and smoking mass. It had very nearly gone off the cliff itself. The nose of the car was hanging over the edge.

Evans and Sarah ran forward. Evans got down on his hands and knees and crawled along the cliff’s edge, trying to see into the driver’s compartment. It was hard to see much of anything—the front windshield was flattened, and the Ferrari lay almost flush to the pavement. Harry came over with a flashlight, and Evans used it to peer inside.

The compartment was empty. Morton’s black bow tie was dangling from the doorknob, but otherwise he was gone.

“He must have been thrown.”

Evans shone the light down the cliff. It was crumbling yellow rock, descending steeply for eighty feet to the ocean below. He saw no sign of Morton.

Sarah was crying softly. Harry had gone back to get a fire extinguisher from the limousine. Evans swung his light back and forth over the rock face. He did not see George’s body. In fact, he did not see any sign of George at all. No disturbance, no path, no bits of clothing. Nothing.

Behind him he heard the whoosh of the fire extinguisher. He crawled away from the cliff’s edge.

“Did you see him, sir?” Harry said, his face full of pain.

“No. I didn’t see anything.”

“Perhaps…over there.” Harry pointed toward the tree. And he was right; if Morton had been thrown from the car by the initial impact, he might be twenty yards back, on the road.

Evans walked back, and shone his flashlight down the cliff again. The battery was running down, the beam was weakening. But almost immediately, he saw a glint of light off a man’s patent leather slipper, wedged among the rocks at the edge of the water.

He sat down in the road and put his head in his hands. And cried.