Drone Command

FIFTY-SIX

Will grilled thick steaks on the backyard barbecue and broke out the best whiskey in the house. Troy and his friends danced on the polished hardwood floors and toasted his success. Three of the young women in attendance made plans to sleep with Troy that night. Troy made plans to sleep with just two of them, preferably at the same time.

After feasting on succulent T-bones and corn on the cob slathered in butter, Will finally got Troy off to the side for a quiet moment. He pulled out two Cuban Cohibas, and they lit them up over snifters of Hennessy cognac.

“So, Mr. Chips, what’s next? Staying at Stanford? Or is Yale still a possibility?”

Troy puffed thoughtfully for a few moments. “Neither.”

“What other school do you have in mind?”

“I’m done with academics.”

Will frowned. “I don’t understand. You’ve worked like a dog these last six years. You’re talented. A hundred doors are open to you. Money’s not an issue — you’ll get a free ride wherever you go with your academic record.”

Troy blew out a billowing blue cloud. “I need to get out of the ivory tower. I want to stretch my legs, see the world. Work up a sweat, you know?”

Will’s eyes narrowed. He swirled the cognac in his glass.

Troy was afraid he’d disappointed him. “Not that I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done, Will. It’s been an amazing ride and, God knows, I’ve learned a helluva lot, in and out of the classroom. And thanks to you, I’m civilized now, or at least some of the sharper edges have been knocked off.”

Will took a sip. “It’s your life, sport. You do what you’ve got to do.”

“You understand, don’t you? I grew up with chain saws and deer rifles in the Rockies, not laptops and lawn mowers in the ’burbs. I don’t know if I’m cut out for the academic life. Especially if I’m not allowed to smash anyone in the mouth.” Troy was still sore about Dr. Fagan’s no vote. A petty, petulant stab in the back by a petty, petulant department chair.

Will chuckled. “I understand on all counts. Believe me. So what are your plans? Working on an Alaska crab boat? Backpacking across Europe? That sort of thing?”

“What I need is a challenge. An adventure. Something physical, but something important. I don’t know exactly.”

Will’s green eyes twinkled. “I’ve been waiting for six years for you to say something like that.”

Troy’s eyes widened, shocked. “Really? I thought you wanted me to be an academic like you.”

“No. All I ever wanted for you was to become truly and fully yourself. You’re a really smart kid, but you’re not exactly cut out for the campus lifestyle.”

“Then what?”

Will laid an arm across Troy’s broad back. Pulled him in close. His breath stank of cigars and sweet liquor. A smile stole beneath the neatly trimmed mustache. He whispered.

“You need to go to the Farm.”