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wearing a well-­cut, pale blue suit, with a radio mic headset that left him free to stroll and gesture as he would. He seemed relaxed and confident in front of seven hundred carefully invited delegates. It was as if he were addressing each one individually, sharing his own, most private thoughts. A neat trick. It brought trust, complicity. You wanted to be there with him, to laugh when he laughed, frown when he frowned, see the bright horizon he saw—­when he got to it. Which was not quite yet. Not yet, no.
    â€œEnergy!”
    Bright, beaming. He spread his arms, he grinned at us.
    â€œEnergy, energy!”
    Then dropped his shoulders. Slumped. A hangdog look upon his face.
    â€œEn . . . er . . . gy.”
    His voice dropped to his boots. And he stayed like that a moment, pantomiming, like a robot who’s run out of juice.
    When he looked up, it was man-­to-­man, one of us; a friend talking.
    â€œAnybody here—­anybody here stay out too late last night? Huh? Be honest. Anyone?”
    There was a shy little murmur here and there among the crowd.
    â€œWell, you should have! You should! It’s a fun city. Go out, have fun! Have a meal, a few drinks. Take in a show, a club. It’s all there, all good. There are some wonderful places in this town, take it from me. But—­and here’s the but —­to do that, to go out, enjoy yourself, you need two things. One is money, obviously. And the other one?”
    He spread his palms. Waited. Then, voice dropping to the bass again: “En-­er-­gy.” He stamped his feet. “ En -­er-­gy.”
    He said, “Me, I couldn’t go out last night. I knew I had this talk to give. So, an early night for Adam. Good night’s sleep. And now, I’m pounding full of energy!” He began to jog around the stage. “Hup! Hup! Keep it up!” He ran in circles, shadow boxed. “One, two, three, four! One, two, one, one, two!” He mimed weight lifting, his face all strained, he raged like Atlas holding up the sky.
    And then he stopped. His shoulders fell. And in a little, lifeless voice, he muttered, “Energy.”
    He pulled a melancholy face.
    â€œAnyone here short of energy? Anyone? Don’t be shy. Come on, admit it! A bit tired? You, sir? You? Because you should be! You should be! All of you. We’re all short of energy. And this is not a case of just needing a sit-­down. This is not a case of feeling jet-­lagged or hungover or insomniac. These are facts, ladies and gentlemen. Energy runs out . We wake up full of it, and by the end of the day, we want to go to bed again. We have run out of energy. And on a global scale—­the consequences are enormous.
    â€œHere, then, are the cold, hard, thoroughly unpleasant facts. We are using up our planet. We are using it up so quickly that our children will inhabit a world almost devoid of usable energy supplies. That is a fact . By latest estimations—­and these may well be optimistic—­uranium will be gone by 2040, oil by 2050. Natural gas by 2070. The metals that we use in industry will vanish along with them. No more iron, no more nickel, no more aluminum. By 2150, the last workable seams of coal will be exhausted. And that, my friends, is that. We can see it coming. We are the last generation able to rely on fossil fuels. And think what that means. We have built a civilization on such things. Our children, unless they are very lucky, will have no electricity. They will come home from school and be unable to do their homework because there will be no light. Simple as that. Oh, of course, there are alternatives—­wind farms, tidal power . . . a few other things. They might work. Might get us through. So if you value your children’s futures—­and I know you do—­go build a windmill, or move to the coast. Or you’ll never watch TV, or cook a burger, or switch on an electric