“Ouch.” Fox snapped at the air with his teeth. “Girl bites shark.” He shook his head gloomily. “I loved her, Tom. I really did.”

“You don’t have to trust me,” Krieger responded. “Trust your own eyes. Trust the communities we’ve already supported. A year from now I’ll be back here on this stage and we can look at our results together.”

Porfle got to his feet. “Terry, you stated in your presentation that your company is empowering the natural world to protect itself. Beyond teaching drones to flap like hummingbirds, could you provide us further examples?”

“Certainly, Alex. You’ve just witnessed our drones’ flocking response to crowd movement using transition algorithms inspired by starling murmuration. Does anyone know what proctodeal trophallaxis is?”

“EAT SHIT!” someone yelled out.

Sharon scowled.

“Exactly right,” Krieger said. “Termites exchange food and information anus to mouth, enabling them to move forward relentlessly without asking their queen for directions, inspiring our people to develop an information-exchange algorithm that enables our surveillance devices to respond autonomously while staying on mission. Our drones communicate using these markers, digital pheromones, if you like, and work as a unit.

“These are just a couple of the nature-based technologies that together offer us a force multiplier and enable us to follow poachers to their homes, study them, and take them down as a network.”

The screen behind Krieger filled with a final image of armed Perseus Group rangers frisking a row of shirtless black African men, the prisoners’ chests pressed against a concrete block wall, their hands zip-cuffed behind their backs. One of the prisoners had his face turned to the camera.

Klay raised his hand.

“That’s all we have time for,” Sharon said. “Let’s give Terry a warm round of applause. I’m sure we can agree we have much to do and many fresh stories to tell as a result of this fabulous new relationship. Thank you!”

Krieger’s hologram dissolved into the stage.

“Well, he seems committed,” Fox said. He turned to Klay. “What were you going to ask?”

Klay turned and made his way up the aisle into the lobby.

“Tom?” Fox repeated.

The auditorium emptied around them.

“Tom Klay,” a voice said.

Klay turned and Raynor McPhee emerged from the crowd.

“Raynor,” Klay said.

The two men shook hands.

“Sorry about Kenya,” McPhee said. “You doing okay?”

“Thanks,” Klay said.

Fox put out his hand. “Mitchell Fox. I respect your work very much, Raynor.”

McPhee shook Fox’s hand without noticing him. His attention was with Klay. “You know why he’s doing this wildlife shit, right?”

Klay didn’t answer.

“Are you leaving the Times?” Fox asked.