Interstellar

“Delhi mission control went down same as ours, ten years ago,” Cooper answered.

“It’s been up there ten years?” Tom said, his tone incredulous. “Why’d it come down so low?”

“Sun finally cooked its brain,” Cooper speculated. “Or it came down looking for something.”

“What?” Murph wanted to know.

“Some kind of signal,” he replied. He shook his head. “Who knows?”

Cooper explored the surface of the machine until he found the access panel. Other than his own efforts—and the faint, sluggish movement of the river—all was still. A slight breeze mingled the scent of burnt corn with aquatic decay. Like everything else, the reservoir had known better days.

He pried open the panel and peered into the box that housed the drone’s brain.

“What are you going to do with it?” Murph asked.

“Give it something scientifically responsible to do,” Cooper said. “Like drive a combine.” He moved to one end and hefted it experimentally. He and Tom would be able to get it into the truck.

“Couldn’t we just let it go?” she asked. “It’s not hurting anyone.”

Cooper glanced down fondly at his daughter. She had a good heart, and generous sensibilities. And a part of him ached at the thought of taking this thing that had roamed freely on the winds for more than a decade—maybe the last of its kind, one of the last flying machines ever—and enslaving it to a field of corn. But unlike Murph, he knew that such feelings had to come second to the necessity.

“This thing has to adapt,” he explained. “Just like the rest of us.”

* * *

By the time they finally limped up to the school, the sleek drone hanging out of the back of the battered truck, Cooper was fighting down a certain amount of anxiety about the parent–teacher conferences.

“How’s this work?” he asked tentatively. “You guys come with?”

“I’ve got class,” Tom informed him with a hint of superiority. Then he patted Murph on the shoulder. “But she needs to wait.”

Murph sent Tom another venom-filled glare as he nimbly exited the vehicle.

“Why?” Cooper asked. “What?” As his son disappeared toward the door, he turned to his daughter.

Murph looked uncomfortable as she scribbled something in her notebook.

“Dad,” she began, “I had a… thing. Well, they’ll tell you about it. Just try and…”

“Am I gonna be mad?” Cooper demanded, raising his eyebrows.

“Not with me,” Murph said. “Just try not to…”

“Relax,” he reassured her. “I got this.”

FOUR

Cooper hadn’t cared for the principal’s office when he was a boy. Now he found he cared for it even less. He felt nervous and jittery—almost as if he had done something wrong.

The principal—William Okafor—was looking out of his window as Cooper stepped in, and he turned to greet his visitor. He was a bit younger than Cooper himself. The authority that was so casually attached to him seemed outsized for the job of riding herd on less than a hundred students. His dark suit and black tie only enhanced the impression, and made Cooper more nervous.

What would he have been thirty years ago? A corporate executive? A military officer? The president of a university?

There was a woman in the room, as well, and he nodded to her. She nodded back. He wondered if she was Miss Hanley, and remembered Donald’s advice to be nice to her. He had to admit that she wasn’t too hard on the eyes. Long blonde hair braided and tied around the top of her head. Conservative skirt and light blue sweater.

“Little late, Coop,” Okafor chastised. He pointed at the empty chair in front of his desk and then nodded out the window toward Cooper’s truck.

“Ah… we had a flat,” Cooper said.

“And I guess you had to stop off at the Asian fighter-plane store.” He sounded a combination of disapproving and curious.

Cooper sat, trying to smile.

“Actually, sir, it’s a surveillance drone,” he explained. “With outstanding solar cells.”

The principal didn’t seem impressed, and he picked up a piece of paper, scanning it.

“We got Tom’s scores back,” he said. “He’s going to make an excellent farmer.” He pushed a paper across his desk. “Congratulations.”

Cooper glanced at it.

“Yeah, he’s got the knack for it,” he conceded.

But Tom could do better.

“What about college?” he asked.

“The university only takes a handful,” Okafor replied. “They don’t have the resources—”

That was too much for Cooper.

“I’m still paying taxes,” he erupted indignantly. “Where’s that go? There’s no more armies…”

The principal shook his head slowly.

“Not to the university, Coop,” he said. “You have to be realistic.”

Realistic? Cooper only felt his outrage growing. This was his kid. This was Tom.

“You’re ruling him out now?” Cooper persisted, not willing to let go. “He’s fifteen.”

“Tom’s score simply isn’t high enough,” Okafor replied.

Trying to keep it together, Cooper pointed at the principal’s pants.

“What’re you?” he demanded. “About a 36-inch waist?”

Okafor just stared at him, clearly unsure where he was going with this.

“Thirty-inch inseam?” Cooper added.

Okafor continued to look at him without comprehension.

“I’m not sure I see what—” he began with a little frown.