Chapter 332: The Broken Machine in the Field

The second commercial Fieldmaster was stuck waiting on a missing bearing.

The third blew an oil seal right in the middle of its endurance run.

The fourth was sitting in pieces, waiting on transmission gears.

And the very first one—the pride of the factory, delivered to a paying estate with a shiny brass plate—was currently sitting dead in the dirt, its engine refusing to even cough.

Arthur read through the four incident reports in total silence.

He took off his wire-rimmed glasses. Polished the lenses with his handkerchief. Put them back on. And read the sheets a second time, just to be sure he wasn’t dreaming.

Across the conference table, Ernest was quietly sketching adjustments on a blueprint. By the tall window, Hollen leaned against the frame, sipping his tea.

Arthur cleared his throat loudly.

Neither man looked up.

He cleared it again, hard enough to rattle his ribs.

Ernest finally lifted his head. "Something wrong, Arthur?"

Arthur slid the four reports across the polished mahogany. "It turns out we’ve invented an entirely new method of agricultural modernization."

Hollen turned around, mug in hand. "Oh? What’s that?"

"Instead of having farmers cultivate the land, we sell them expensive iron sculptures to decorate their pastures."

Ernest blinked.

Hollen sputtered into his tea, howling with laughter.

Arthur didn’t crack a smile. "Unit FM-0001 won’t start."

Ernest’s face tightened. "Which estate?"

"Westbrook."

"When did it happen?"

"Yesterday afternoon. The telegram arrived an hour ago."

"Has anyone looked at it?"

"The estate mechanic poked around for three hours. Couldn’t find a thing."

Hollen set his cup on the sill, his grin fading into focus. "Does it have fuel?"

"The report says the tank is full."

"Ignition?"

"Unknown."

"Is the crank turning the flywheel?"

"Yes."

Ernest pushed his chair back and stood up. "Where’s Samuel Reeves?"

Arthur flipped to the last page. "Already on the road. Left at dawn in the service truck."

Ernest let out a breath and nodded. "Good."

Arthur crossed his arms, staring at them. "That’s it? Just ’good’? We have twenty-three more of these things committed on the books."

Hollen gave him a faint, lopsided smirk. "Well, they aren’t shipping today, Arthur."

"That," Arthur muttered, "is precisely what keeps me awake at night."

Westbrook Estate sat about sixty miles west of Oriel, sprawling across wide wheat fields and gentle green hills. It was a wealthy property with its own stables, stone granaries, and a full maintenance shed.

When their Fieldmaster had rolled off the rail flatcar three days earlier, it had looked like a miracle. It plowed through two-furrow test strips without breaking a sweat, hauled heavily loaded supply wagons, and drew half the neighboring farmers to the fence line to gawk. The estate manager, Edward Harland, had been so thrilled he immediately sent a telegram asking how soon he could buy a second one.

Now, Harland was pacing his gravel driveway, wondering if he’d just thrown sixty-seven thousand riels down a rat hole.

Right before noon, a low, rhythmic engine rumble echoed down the lane.

The Teucher Cargo One service truck swung into the courtyard, dust caking its olive-drab fenders. Built like a rolling workshop, the enclosed rear carried spare gears, belts, lubricants, tool racks, and a small hoist.

Samuel Reeves hopped down from the cab, wiping grease off his hands with a rag, followed by his young assistant.

Harland practically jogged over. "Mr. Reeves?"

"That’s me."

"Thank God you’re here."

Reeves squinted across the yard. "Where’s the patient?"

Harland blinked. "The... what?"

"The tractor."

"Oh. In the implement shed by the north field."

"Let’s have a look."

The Fieldmaster sat under a rough wooden awning. Its forest-green paint was already coated in gray dust, and clods of dry mud clung to the steel cleats on the rear wheels.

Reeves didn’t touch a wrench yet. He walked a slow, deliberate circle around the machine, checking the fuel cock, the oil glass, the throttle linkage, and the radiator cap.

Then he turned to the estate driver standing nearby. "When did she last run?"

"Yesterday morning, sir."

"Any sputtering?"

"Ran smooth as silk."

"Did you shut her down normal-like?"

"Switched off the magneto and cut the fuel, just like the manual says."

"Anything weird right before that?"

The driver rubbed the back of his neck, hesitating. "Well..."

Reeves looked right at him. "Out with it, lad."

"She gave a little cough or two while idling by the gate. Nothing major."

"Was it raining?"

"Rained hard all morning. Ground was pretty soupy."

Reeves walked over to the side of the engine block, eyeing the magneto housing. A faint grin touched the corners of his mouth. "Ah."

Harland leaned in. "What is it? Did the cylinder crack?"

"Worse. It got damp."

The Fieldmaster relied on a magneto ignition, meaning it made its own spark without needing a heavy glass storage battery. But magnetos hated moisture.

Reeves unscrewed the housing cover. Inside, a film of condensation and fine farm dust was clinging to the wiring terminals. He pulled the lead wire, held it near the block, and had the assistant spin the hand crank.

A pathetic, dull yellow spark flickered once, then died.

Weak. Completely useless for igniting cold fuel vapor.

Reeves went to work without a word. He dried the contacts with clean cotton waste, scraped away the grit, swapped out a cracked insulating washer from his kit, and reset the breaker points.

He stepped back and wiped his brow. "Give her a turn."

The driver hopped onto the step, set the throttle lever to the start notch, and yanked the iron crank handle upward.

Chuff.

Chuff-chuff.

ROAR!

The four-cylinder engine caught with a sharp bark, settling into a deep, steady chuff-chuff-chuff that rattled the tin roof of the shed. Clean exhaust puffed from the vertical stack.

Harland let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for two days. "Thank heaven."

Reeves let the engine idle for five minutes, watching the revs and checking the spark leads. The rhythm never missed a beat.

The fix had taken less than two hours. Yet instead of packing up, Reeves climbed into the back of his service truck, pulled down a folding stool, and opened a battered leather logbook.

His assistant leaned against the tailgate, looking puzzled. "Mr. Reeves? It’s running fine. What are you writing?"

"Writing down why we had to come out here in the first place."

"Well, things break down on farms. It got wet."

"It shouldn’t have," Reeves said flatly, his stubby pencil scratching across the paper. "The factory ran these through water troughs in the yard, but they didn’t account for hours of fine road dust packing into the seal before the rain hit. If this seal leaked on day three, the other twenty-three are going to leak by next week."

He closed the book with a snap, hopped down, and looked at Harland.

"She’s good to work, Mr. Harland. But I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon to check the points again."

Harland blinked. "You’re coming back? Even though it’s fixed?"

"I’d rather spend an hour checking a seal tomorrow," Reeves said dryly, "than spend the next six months driving across the kingdom fixing twenty-three drowned magnetos."