At nine o’clock that morning, the invited attendees to the conference were milling around on the floor, not taking their seats. Evans was standing near the entrance, drinking coffee. He felt incredibly tired, but he was all right. He’d been a little shaky in his legs earlier, but that had passed.

The delegates were clearly academic types, many dressed casually in a manner to suggest an outdoorsy lifestyle—khakis and L.L.Bean shirts, hiking boots, Patagonia vests. “It looks like a lumberjack convention, doesn’t it?” Jennifer said, standing beside Evans. “You’d never know these guys spend most of their time in front of computer monitors.”

“Is that true?” Evans said.

“A lot of them, yes.”

“And the hiking shoes?”

She shrugged. “The rugged look is in, at the moment.”

At the podium, Nicholas Drake tapped the microphone. “Good morning, everyone,” he said. “We will begin in ten minutes.” Then he stepped away, and huddled with Henley.

“Waiting for the TV cameras,” Jennifer said. “They had some electrical problems this morning. Crews are still setting up.”

“So, of course, everything waits for television.”

At the entrance to the convention hall, there was a commotion and shouting. Evans looked over and saw an elderly man in a tweed coat and tie struggling with two security guards. “But I have been invited!” he said. “I am supposed to be here.”

“Sorry, sir,” the guards were saying, “your name is not on the sheet.”

“But, I tell you, I have been invited!”

“Oh boy,” Jennifer said, shaking her head.

“Who’s that?”

“That is Professor Norman Hoffman. Ever heard of him?”

“No, why?”

“The ecology of thought? He’s a famous sociologist, or should I say a notorious one. Extremely critical of environmental beliefs. A bit of a mad dog. We had him over to the war room to ask him his views. That was a mistake. The guy never shuts up. He talks a mile a minute and goes off on tangents—in every direction—and you can’t turn him off. It’s like a TV set that changes channels every few seconds, and there’s no remote.”

“No wonder they don’t want him here.”

“Oh yes, he would cause trouble. He already is.”

Over by the entrance, the old man was struggling with the security guards. “Let go of me! How dare you! I was invited! By George Morton himself. He and I are personal friends. George Morton invited me!”

The mention of George Morton sparked something. Evans went over to the old man.

Jennifer said, “You’ll be sor-ry…”

He shrugged. “Excuse me,” he said, coming up to the guards. “I’m Mr. Morton’s attorney. Can I help you?”

The old man writhed in the grip of the guards. “I’m Professor Norman Hoffman and George Morton invited me!” Up close, Evans saw that the old man was messily shaven, unkempt, his hair wild. “Why do you think I would come to this horrible convocation? For one reason only: George asked me to. He wanted my impression of it. Although I could have told him weeks ago: There are no surprises to be had here, I can assure you. It will unfold with all the stately ceremony of any cheap funeral.”

Evans was thinking Jennifer had been right to warn him about this guy. He said politely, “Do you have a ticket, sir?”

“No, I don’t have a ticket. I don’t need a ticket. What don’t you understand, young man? I am Professor Norman Hoffman and I am a personal friend of George Morton’s. Anyway,” he said, “they took my ticket.”

“Who did?”

“One of those guards.”

Evans said to the guards, “Did you take his ticket?”

“He didn’t have a ticket.”

“Do you have a stub?” Evans said to Hoffman.

“No, damn it, I do not have a stub. I do not need a stub. I do not need any of this, frankly.”

“I’m sorry, Professor, but—”

“However, I managed to hold on to this.” He gave Evans the torn corner of a ticket. It was a genuine ticket.

“Where is the rest?”

“I told you, they took it.”

A guard standing to one side beckoned to Evans. Evans went over to him. The guard turned his cupped hand, revealing the rest of the ticket in his palm. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but Mr. Drake gave specific orders this gentleman was not to be allowed in.”

“But he has a ticket,” Evans said.

“Perhaps you’d like to take it up with Mr. Drake.”

By now, a television crew had wandered over, drawn by the commotion. Hoffman immediately played to the cameras, struggling anew.

“Don’t bother with Drake!” Hoffman yelled to Evans. “Drake won’t let truth into these proceedings!” He turned to the camera. “Nicholas Drake is an immoral fraud, and these proceedings are a travesty to the poor of the world. I bear witness to the dying children of Africa and Asia! Breathing their last because of conferences like this! Fearmongers! Immoral fearmongers!” He struggled maniacally. His eyes were wild. There was spittle on his lips. He certainly appeared crazy, and the cameras switched off; the crews turned away, seemingly embarrassed. At once, Hoffman stopped his struggle. “Never mind. I’ve said my piece. No one is interested, as usual.” He turned to his guards. “You can let me go. I have had enough of this chicanery. I cannot bear to be here another minute. Let me go!”

Evans said, “Let him go.”

The guards released Hoffman. He immediately dashed into the center of the room, where a crew was now interviewing Ted Bradley. Hoffman stepped in front of Bradley and said, “This man is a pimp! He is an eco-pimp for a corrupt establishment that makes its living by spreading false fears! Don’t you understand? False fears are a plague, a modern plague!”

Then the guards were on Hoffman again, dragging him bodily out of the hall. He didn’t struggle this time. He just went limp, his heels scraping on the ground as he was carried out. All he said was, “Be careful, I have a bad back. You hurt me and I’ll sue you for assault.”

They set him outside on the curb, dusted him off, released him.

“Have a good day, sir.”

“I intend to. My days are numbered.”

Evans hung back with Jennifer, watching Hoffman. “I won’t say I told you,” Jennifer said.

“Just who is he, anyway?”

“He’s a professor emeritus at USC. He was one of the first people to study in a rigorous statistical fashion the media and its effect on society. He’s quite interesting, but as you see he has developed, uh, strong opinions.”

“You think Morton really invited him here?”

“Peter, I need your help,” a voice said. Evans turned and saw Drake striding toward him.

“What is it?”

“That nut,” Drake said, nodding to Hoffman, “is probably going to go straight to the police and claim he was assaulted. We don’t need that this morning. Go talk to him. See if you can calm him down.”

Cautiously, Evans said, “I don’t know what I can do…”

“Get him to explain his nutty theories,” Drake said. “That’ll keep him busy for hours.”

“But then I’ll miss the conf—”

“We don’t need you here. We need you there. With the cuckoo.”

There was a large crowd outside the conference center. The overflow was watching the proceedings on a big TV screen, with subtitles running underneath the speaker. Evans pushed through the gathering. “I know why you are following me,” Hoffman said, when he saw Evans. “And it won’t work.”

“Professor—”

“You’re the bright young poseur Nick Drake sent to put me off my purpose.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Yes, you are. Don’t lie to me. I don’t like to be lied to.”

“All right,” Evans said, “it’s true. I was sent by Drake.”

Hoffman stopped. He seemed startled by the honesty. “I knew it. And what did he tell you to do?”

“Stop you from going to the police.”

“All right then, you’ve succeeded. Go and tell him, I am not going to the police.”

“It looks like you are.”

“Oh. It looks like I am. You’re one of those people who care what it looks like.”

“No, sir, but you—”

“I don’t care what it looks like. I care what is. Do you have any idea what is?”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“What is your line of work?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“I should have known. Everybody is a lawyer these days. Extrapolating the statistical growth of the legal profession, by the year 2035 every single person in the United States will be a lawyer, including newborn infants. They will be born lawyers. What do you suppose it will be like to live in such a society?”

“Professor,” Evans said, “you made some interesting comments in the hall—”

“Interesting? I accused them of flagrant immorality, and you call that interesting?”

“I’m sorry,” Evans said, trying to move the discussion toward Hoffman’s views. “You didn’t explain why you think—”

“I do not think anything, young man. I know. That is the purpose of my research—to know things, not to surmise them. Not to theorize. Not to hypothesize. But to know from direct research in the field. It’s a lost art in academia these days, young man—you are not that young—what is your name, anyway?”

“Peter Evans.”

“And you work for Drake, Mr. Evans?”

“No, for George Morton.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so!” Hoffman said. “George Morton was a great, great man. Come along, Mr. Evans, and I will buy you some coffee and we can talk. Do you know what I do?”

“I’m afraid I don’t, sir.”

“I study the ecology of thought,” Hoffman said. “And how it has led to a State of Fear.”