SABRE as before, at the table, apparently concentrating on the WEATHER MAP before her.

DRAKE is now directly opposite, almost glaring at her. He does not like being ignored.

1. DRAKE: Your man West says we make Shera tomorrow, the day next at latest.
2. DRAKE: It’s past time for a talk, you and I.

3. SABRE: You’re the taciturn one, Marshal Drake.

SABRE looks up at DRAKE. Grinning. DRAKE is not amused, now leaning in and putting his INDEX FINGER on the MAP.

4. SABRE: Or do you rather the term ‘laconic?’

5. DRAKE: By my count, there’s over ten souls gone to the Maker over this map.

SABRE sitting back. DRAKE has bent, so he’s looking her dead in the eye. Still with a finger on the map.

6. DRAKE: If it’s all you say it is, this map tells the future.
7. DRAKE: Which Lands fall, which Lands rise.
8. DRAKE: That means countless more souls are fixing to take the same trip.

On SABRE. No smile. She’s returning Drake’s gaze evenly, stoic, almost defensive.

9. SABRE: If you have a point, sir, I wish you would make it.