his fuzzy image sitting at the laptop. He adjusted the picture quality and then raised one thumb.
“Okay, it’s time for the Georgia Tech slalom,” Jones said, approaching the window and surveying Fifth Street below.
The drone had flown this street course autonomously as programmed by a flight control algorithm. The record was one minute and eleven seconds. Jones had come close to beating it manually before but had never succeeded.
He positioned the controller firmly on the window ledge. “The bet is one large cheese and pepperoni pizza. The course is eight streetlights, four up the block and four back. The drone must circle each pole. When it reaches the last light, it must dock on the upper banner arm and then return through this window and back to this table. Seventy seconds or less.”
“Without losing a wing,” Zee said.
“Without losing a wing.”
Zee set a stopwatch on his phone. “Ready . . . go.”
Jones raced the drone forward into the night sky, gliding it downward against the building’s façade, around the first aluminum streetlight, expertly approaching and then looping around the second, third, and fourth lights like some Olympic downhill skier. It was missing the pole shafts by mere inches.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Zee sung, noticing several pedestrians pause on the sidewalk and scramble for their phones. “You’ve got thirty seconds.”
Video game–like, Jones contorted his body with the controller as he guided the drone across Fifth Street and through the backstretch, winding around streetlights five, six, and seven, and then deftly setting the drone onto the upper-most of two horizontal banner bars on streetlight number eight.
“We have surface locomotor grip,” Zee’s voice proclaimed in an official tone.
Jones pressed a control button with his thumb, and the insect’s legs released.
“Twelve . . . eleven . . . ten . . .”
Hovering free, the drone streaked for the fourth floor, narrowly missing the treetops on the grassy perimeter below.
“Six . . . five . . . four . . .”
Jones centered the drone at the window, took a split-second to eye the path and angle, and then eased the drone over the threshold and back into the lab. It skidded to rest on the table next to Zee’s laptop. The wing beats petered out.
“One,” Zee announced. “Unreal. You made it.”
“ Yee-hah! Mission accomplished, sir!” Jones, shouted, raising his arms. “I ought to be in the military. Precision drone pilot extraordinaire.”
“That was pretty cool,” Zee admitted, removing the drone’s fuel cartridges and wings. “If Robertson ever knew about this, he’d have a stroke.”
There was a loud knocking on the lab door.
Jones quickly disconnected the laptop cable. He slammed the window shut an instant before the door clicked open.
“Who is in here?” The voice was male and stern. It wasn’t maintenance. “Mr. Jones? Mr. Zibinski? Why is this door locked?”
“Dr. Al-Aran, sir . . . um, we were just finishing,” Jones squeaked, standing guiltily at attention. “It’s been a long day. How are you? Locked? Um, no particular reason, sir. We just felt better about security with the project and all.”
Al-Aran gave the room a general glance. Satisfied there were no hidden women, he tucked his security SmartCard away. “You might be interested to know that your drone was named top Pirelli prize winner. Professor Robertson sent a departmental email. Your research budget just got a quarter-million dollars richer.”
Al-Aran walked to the room’s refrigerator and popped open a Coca-Cola. He spied the drone on the table.
“I suppose we might bend a few rules tonight,” he announced, lighting his pipe and dropping his match into the can. It sizzled briefly.
“Gentlemen, you should be proud. You’ve come a long way with your little flying gold mine. Did Professor Robertson ever mention that I helped design the wings for the first prototype? We cut them from
“Okay, it’s time for the Georgia Tech slalom,” Jones said, approaching the window and surveying Fifth Street below.
The drone had flown this street course autonomously as programmed by a flight control algorithm. The record was one minute and eleven seconds. Jones had come close to beating it manually before but had never succeeded.
He positioned the controller firmly on the window ledge. “The bet is one large cheese and pepperoni pizza. The course is eight streetlights, four up the block and four back. The drone must circle each pole. When it reaches the last light, it must dock on the upper banner arm and then return through this window and back to this table. Seventy seconds or less.”
“Without losing a wing,” Zee said.
“Without losing a wing.”
Zee set a stopwatch on his phone. “Ready . . . go.”
Jones raced the drone forward into the night sky, gliding it downward against the building’s façade, around the first aluminum streetlight, expertly approaching and then looping around the second, third, and fourth lights like some Olympic downhill skier. It was missing the pole shafts by mere inches.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Zee sung, noticing several pedestrians pause on the sidewalk and scramble for their phones. “You’ve got thirty seconds.”
Video game–like, Jones contorted his body with the controller as he guided the drone across Fifth Street and through the backstretch, winding around streetlights five, six, and seven, and then deftly setting the drone onto the upper-most of two horizontal banner bars on streetlight number eight.
“We have surface locomotor grip,” Zee’s voice proclaimed in an official tone.
Jones pressed a control button with his thumb, and the insect’s legs released.
“Twelve . . . eleven . . . ten . . .”
Hovering free, the drone streaked for the fourth floor, narrowly missing the treetops on the grassy perimeter below.
“Six . . . five . . . four . . .”
Jones centered the drone at the window, took a split-second to eye the path and angle, and then eased the drone over the threshold and back into the lab. It skidded to rest on the table next to Zee’s laptop. The wing beats petered out.
“One,” Zee announced. “Unreal. You made it.”
“ Yee-hah! Mission accomplished, sir!” Jones, shouted, raising his arms. “I ought to be in the military. Precision drone pilot extraordinaire.”
“That was pretty cool,” Zee admitted, removing the drone’s fuel cartridges and wings. “If Robertson ever knew about this, he’d have a stroke.”
There was a loud knocking on the lab door.
Jones quickly disconnected the laptop cable. He slammed the window shut an instant before the door clicked open.
“Who is in here?” The voice was male and stern. It wasn’t maintenance. “Mr. Jones? Mr. Zibinski? Why is this door locked?”
“Dr. Al-Aran, sir . . . um, we were just finishing,” Jones squeaked, standing guiltily at attention. “It’s been a long day. How are you? Locked? Um, no particular reason, sir. We just felt better about security with the project and all.”
Al-Aran gave the room a general glance. Satisfied there were no hidden women, he tucked his security SmartCard away. “You might be interested to know that your drone was named top Pirelli prize winner. Professor Robertson sent a departmental email. Your research budget just got a quarter-million dollars richer.”
Al-Aran walked to the room’s refrigerator and popped open a Coca-Cola. He spied the drone on the table.
“I suppose we might bend a few rules tonight,” he announced, lighting his pipe and dropping his match into the can. It sizzled briefly.
“Gentlemen, you should be proud. You’ve come a long way with your little flying gold mine. Did Professor Robertson ever mention that I helped design the wings for the first prototype? We cut them from
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