But it very soon became obvious from Pippa’s gestures and the movements of her eyes that she had found something. “Holy fuck,” she said. It was all she needed to say. “Let me Google Map this place, my American geography is rubbish.” She did so. “Where do you suppose he’s headed?”
“If you draw a line from the Canadian bhangra bash through that T.R. Mick’s, it points to me,” Rufus said.
“You’re in Texas.”
“How’d you guess?” Rufus answered, half serious.
“The beer. And you mentioned savagery.”
Rufus looked at his beer. Shiner Bock.
“West Texas, to judge from your imaginary line on the map.” A thought occurred to her. “Say, are you anywhere near that huge—”
The rest of her question was drowned out by a sonic boom. Rufus just nodded.
Pippa sat back in her chair and pondered for a spell. Rufus let her do it. The beer was enjoyable. The temperature in the canyon was now perfect. He was in no particular hurry. He checked his phone, which had buzzed a couple of minutes ago.
> Incoming!
He could hear a drone coming up the valley, following the road. He could tell from the tone of its rotors that it was a big boy—the kind they used to deliver sacks of groceries. Rufus got to his feet, cupped his hands around his mouth, and hollered up to the peak that loomed over the mine entrance. “Drone coming!” he shouted. “We got any birds in the air?” Eagles—especially when they were wearing 3D printed gauntlets—could take down smaller surveillance drones with impunity, but the rotors on cargo carriers were beefy enough to cause injury. Carmelita hollered down with the information that all birds were safely in their boxes.
The big drone banked into view, slowed momentarily, then came right for him. Someone back at High Noon was piloting it off a video feed. As it came closer he gestured toward the other table, a few feet behind him. The drone settled there, released a cardboard box that had been grappled to its belly, then whooshed straight up until it was clear of the canyon walls and headed back north. Rufus pulled a knife from his pocket, unfolded it, and slit the tape.
Inside, under a layer of wadded-up paper, was a drone, bigger than his hand but smaller than a dinner plate, looking a little the worse for wear. Had it been one of his, he’d have rated it as just barely worth fixing. It had been slammed against something hard and lost a rotor. The motor’s axle was bent and the chassis had taken some structural damage.
He carried it back over to his laptop and sat back down. Pippa was evidently using other windows on her screen to look stuff up, but she was still on the call.
“What do you know about the Punjab? The monsoons?” Pippa asked. “I don’t want to tell you stuff you already know.”
The mention of monsoons put it all together for Rufus. He still talked to Alastair from time to time. That topic had come up once or twice earlier in the summer, when people had been afraid the rains would never begin.
“There is concern,” Rufus said, “in the minds of some folks, that Pina2bo here is going to mess up the monsoons and create a big problem for farmers who depend on that rain.”
Pippa nodded. “To tell you the truth, it’s probably a bigger deal than all that drama around the Line of Actual Control. If I’m an Indian military planner, a few hectares of gravel and ice at six thousand meters above sea level is symbolically important, sure, but famine in the Breadbasket is where I really need to focus.”
“So what am I going to do?” Rufus mused. “If I am that military planner, I mean. Send troop ships up the Rio Grande and make an amphibious landing at the Flying S Ranch?”
He thought better when his hands were busy. He found that he had deployed a little screwdriver from the multitool he kept on his belt and was removing the screws that held the drone’s outer shell to its chassis. “Send long-range bombers halfway around the world? Does India even have those?”
“They are more about rockets, I think,” Pippa said. She was multitasking too. “Nine hundred miles.”
“Eh?”
“I’m nine hundred miles away from you. Depending on which part of that huge ranch you are on.”
“The old marble mine.”
“Got it. What’s that, a day’s drive?”
“A very long day,” Rufus said. “Depends on how you drive.”
“Conservatively, as befits a guest in your country,” Pippa said, “but I have friends.”
Rufus had got the drone opened up and was checking out its guts. He already knew that it was of no make or model he had ever seen before. There was not a speck of branding on the thing. Not mass produced. 3D printed from carbon fiber composite—an expensive process. Too polished, though, to be what you’d call a prototype. Some of the parts, like batteries and motors, were off-the-shelf—stuff you could source over the Internet anywhere in the world. Made sense. Even the kind of esoteric R & D program that had 3D carbon fiber printers wouldn’t bother manufacturing its own batteries from scratch. Same went for ribbon cables, connectors, fasteners, and a lot of other bits. Circuit boards were what mattered. Those, and the propellers. The propellers were machined out of some light metal and anodized black. He could tell