Over to the north are the runways that the companies all share, crossing each other like an X over an H, their smudged concrete looking messy in the surrounding pureness. Compounds for Aerodyne, Hughes, SDR, Lockheed, Williams, Ford Aerospace, Raytheon, Parnell, and RWD lie scattered around in the dunes, like blocks dropped by a giant child. There’s a great plume of smoke out to the east, lofting some thirty thousand feet into the sky; someone’s test has succeeded, or failed, it’s hard to tell, although there’s an oiliness to the plume that suggests failure. “RWD was trying out the new treetop stealth bomber’s guidance system,” Hamilton informs McPherson. “They say it didn’t see a little hill over that way.”

“Too bad.”

“The pilot was automatically ejected no more than a second before impact, and he survived. Only broken legs and ribs.”

“That’s good.”

“RPVs are the coming thing, there’s no doubt about it. Everything moves too fast for pilots to be useful! They’re just up there at risk, and it costs ten times as much to make a plane that will accommodate them, even though they can’t do anything anymore.”

McPherson squints. “As long as all the automatic systems work.”

Hamilton laughs. “Like ours, you mean. Well, we’ll find out real soon now.” He gestures to the west. “The target tanks are out there on the horizon. We’ve followed your instructions, so they’re equipped with the Soviets’ Badger antiaircraft systems, and surrounded by Armadillo SAM installations. Those should give the plane a run for its money.”

McPherson nods. The six tanks on the western horizon, also under remote control, are little black frogs trundling south in a diagonal pattern, churning up sugary clouds of sand. “It’s a fair test.”

They wait, and to pass the time they talk some more about the test, saying things they both already know. But that’s all right. Everyone gets a little nervous when the time comes to see if all their efforts will actually amount to anything. Will the numbers translate into reality successfully? The talk is reassuring.

The deck intercom crackles as they’re patched into air control for the runways. A hangar north of the runway has opened, and out of it rolls a long black jet with a narrow fuselage.

Below the fuselage are two pods.

They’re as big as the fuselage itself: one black, one white.

Sensors. You can close your eyes, it won’t matter.

Under each delta wing, flanking the turbines: arrays of little fletched missiles.

The front of the fuselage comes to a long point, like a narwhale’s.

The rear flares out into stabilizers almost as big as the wings.

Under the fuselage, a small cylindrical rocket booster.

Understand: it doesn’t look like a plane anymore.

And those brake lights, winking in the axons …