Chapter 331: Green Machine

Thomas Bell arrived at Plant One the following morning, accompanied by two older farmers from his cooperative. They looked completely out of place on the polished office rugs, holding their caps against their chests.

"Lord Teucher," Bell said, clearing his throat nervously. "Hope we’re not interrupting."

"Never, Mr. Bell. Come in."

Bell laid a worn leather envelope on the table. Inside were handwritten bank slips, cash receipts, and pledge notes from twelve families.

Arthur pulled out his spectacles and tallied the columns. The room stayed dead silent except for the scratch of Arthur’s pencil.

Finally, Arthur looked up. "You’ve gathered twenty-two thousand riels."

Bell leaned forward, hopeful. "Is it enough for the down payment? The bank said if you backed the note—"

"Mr. Bell," Arthur said gently, his usual sharp edge entirely gone. "You shouldn’t buy this tractor."

The old farmer froze. "What?"

"If you hand over twenty-two thousand riels today, you drain every copper your cooperative has saved," Arthur explained, tapping the paper. "What happens if a wet frost kills the wheat? What happens when you need two barrels of oil and a replacement plowshare? You’d be betting your family farms on a single machine."

Bell looked down at his rough hands, his shoulders sinking. "We worked three months pulling this together. We saw what that machine did during the trials. It saved our harvest."

Ernest pulled his chair closer. "Arthur is right about the debt, Thomas. But that doesn’t mean you can’t use the machine."

Bell looked up, confused.

"Mercer is buying a commercial unit," Ernest said. "He’s an agricultural contractor. Work with him. Let his tractor do your heavy plowing on a flat acreage fee. You get your fields turned in three days, and you don’t take on the debt."

"Ownership isn’t the only way to get the work done," Arthur added. "Keep saving your reserve. When the price comes down on the second-generation line, you’ll be ready."

Bell stared at the table for a long moment, then slowly nodded. "Aye... I suppose that makes sense. No point owning an iron horse if you can’t afford to feed it."

He stood up, offering his hand. "Thank you for being straight with us, Lord Teucher."

After the door closed, Ernest stayed quiet, staring out the window at the smoking brick chimneys.

"You look troubled," Arthur said, stacking the bank papers.

"I wanted them to have one," Ernest murmured. "They were the first ones who believed an engine could work the fields. Now the first batch goes to wealthy estates."

"Ernest," Arthur said softly. "Success isn’t measured by whether Thomas Bell has a Teucher serial plate in his barn. It’s measured by whether his family gets their crops out of the ground before winter ruins them."

Ernest looked up, surprised, and cracked a faint smile. "That’s surprisingly wise coming from you, Arthur."

"I have my moments. Don’t get used to it."

Over dinner that night, Eleanor noticed Ernest staring into his soup bowl.

"Still thinking about the cooperative?" she asked.

"A bit," Ernest admitted. "I don’t want these machines to just be toys for the rich."

Eleanor set her spoon down and touched his hand. "You don’t need every farmer to own an engine, Ernest. You just need the power of the engine to reach their land. If a contractor plows their field, their back still hurts a little less at night, doesn’t it?"

Ernest laughed softly, squeezing her fingers. "You and Arthur should start a consulting firm."

"Perish the thought," she chuckled.

Back at Plant One, the first commercial chassis took shape.

Hollen practically lived in the eastern bay. He hovered over every bolt, watching workers fit the heavy gears, drop the four-cylinder engine into the rails, and bolt on the steel-spoked wheels.

When a mechanic struggled to reach a transmission drain plug, Hollen had the draftsmen redesign the bracket on the spot. When a fuel line rubbed against a vibration point, they added a brass clamp.

Eleven days later, the tractor was rolled into the test yard.

CHUFF—CHUFF—CHUFF!

The engine fired up on the second crank. It ran smoothly, backing up, turning sharp corners, and pulling test sleds weighted with scrap iron until its radiator steamed in the autumn chill.

Aside from an oil sweat on a side gasket, it ran without a hitch.

A brass plate was riveted to the frame right beside the fuel shutoff:

TEUCHER FIELDMASTER — SERIAL NO. FM-0001.

Painted forest green with black rims, it looked tough, blunt, and built for work.

"Well?" Ernest asked, walking up beside Hollen.

"Still ugly as sin," Hollen grunted, crossing his arms.

Ernest laughed out loud. "You’re never letting that go."

"Never."

The day before the tractor was slated to ship out to its buyer, a young man showed up at the front gate wearing a patched tweed jacket, holding a crumpled letter from William Mercer.

"Name’s Daniel Foster, sir," the boy said, taking his cap off when Ernest met him in the yard. "Mr. Mercer said you were teaching folks how to drive these."

Ernest looked at the calloused hands. "Ever driven an automobile, Daniel?"

"No, sir. Just horses and steam water pumps."

"Why switch to engines?"

Daniel shifted his weight, looking over at the green tractor parked across the yard. "Because horses get tired, sir. My dad spent forty years behind a team, and his back’s ruined. When I saw this thing turn three furrows without stopping for breath... I figured I ought to learn how it thinks."

Ernest nodded. "Report to the training bay tomorrow at seven sharp."

For two weeks, Daniel and half a dozen other farmhands were put through their paces. They tore down carburetors, learned how to clear jammed fuel lines, practiced clutching without grinding the straight-cut gears, and backed up two-wheeled wagons until they could do it in their sleep.

Daniel stalled out constantly the first two days. By the end of the second week, he could slice an acre of sod with straight, clean borders without looking down at the levers.

When Ernest handed him his training certificate on Friday, Daniel stared at the paper as if it were pure gold.

"Thank you, My Lord," Daniel said, his voice quiet. "I won’t let Mr. Mercer down."

"I know you won’t," Ernest smiled. "Keep your oil clean."

The following Tuesday, Fieldmaster Number One was winched onto an open flatbed railcar.

Workers wedged heavy wooden chocks under its iron wheels and strapped it down with thick hemp rope. Inside a sealed wooden crate beside the driver’s platform sat spare filters, extra drive chains, operating manuals, and an inspection log.

A locomotive gave a loud, piercing whistle down the line.

Arthur, Hollen, and Ernest stood on the platform as the steam cleared.

"Sixty-seven thousand riels," Arthur muttered, checking his pocket watch. "Rolling away on a flatcar."

"Cheer up, Arthur," Hollen chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. "Only twenty-three more to worry about."

Arthur sighed, shaking his head.

The train hissed, its heavy iron wheels slipping once on the rails before catching traction. Slowly, the flatcar rolled down the siding, the dark green tractor standing tall against the gray autumn sky until it rounded the bend toward the countryside.

Three days later, Arthur walked briskly into Ernest’s office, waving a paper slip.

"Bad news?" Ernest asked, looking up from his drafting board.

"You tell me," Arthur said, handing it over.

It was a telegram from the estate manager:

TRACTOR ARRIVED IN GOOD ORDER. FIFTY ACRES TURNED WITHOUT INCIDENT. DRIVER PRAISES POWER. REQUESTING QUOTE FOR SECOND MACHINE AND SEED DRILL.

Hollen, leaning back on the leather sofa, burst into a wide grin. "Three days. It took them three days to ask for another."

Ernest set the slip down, looking out the window at the factory floor below.

Over in the eastern bay, the blue sparks of welders were flying, and the heavy thud of presses shook the floor. Chassis Number Two was already sitting on its wheels. Number Three’s transmission was being hoisted into place.

Twenty-three more to go.

The kingdom’s industrial march had started with locomotives and factory smokestacks. But looking out across the yard, Ernest knew the real test was just beginning out in the fields, one turned furrow at a time.