Chapter 272: Number 64

By the end of the first day, Model One Number Sixty-Four had traveled eighty-three kilometers.

By the end of the second, one hundred seventy-one.

By the third day, Wallace had stopped calling it "the machine."

He called it "The number Sixty-Four."

Aldren noticed the change immediately, but he said nothing.

At twenty past six on the Thursday morning, Wallace walked into the eastern service court. He held a tin cup of coffee in one hand and his transport sheet in the other.

Number Sixty-Four sat parked beneath the covered shed.

Nearby, the other drivers were busy with their horses. Harnesses jingled. Stable boys hauled water buckets across the stones.

Wallace walked past them without stopping.

An older carriage driver called out, "Forgot your horse, Wallace!"

Wallace took a sip of coffee. "Don’t need one."

A few men chuckled.

Wallace set his cup on the running board of the Model One. Then he began the routine Teucher’s mechanics had drilled into his head.

Fuel.

Oil.

Tires.

Water.

He opened the fuel valve beneath the cowl. He adjusted the mixture lever, set the ignition on the dash, and walked to the front crank.

A stable hand leaned against a timber post, watching him. "How many tries today?"

Wallace looked at him. "One."

"Took three yesterday."

"Engine was cold yesterday."

"It’s cold now."

Wallace gripped the starting handle and pulled upward with a sharp snap.

Tup-tup-tup-tup-tup-tup.

The engine caught instantly.

Wallace smiled.

The stable hand frowned. "Luck."

"Skill," Wallace replied.

"You just turned a handle."

"I turned it correctly."

Wallace picked up his coffee and climbed into the driver’s seat.

A clerk ran down the administrative steps holding two locked leather pouches. "Central Telegraph Office first, Wallace."

Wallace checked his sheet. "Then?"

"The ministry quarter."

"Then?"

"The western annex."

Wallace sighed. "Busy morning."

"That’s why we’re taking this instead of a carriage," the clerk said, climbing into the passenger seat.

Wallace pulled the low gear pedal. The car rolled forward.

By eight o’clock, Number Sixty-Four had finished all three trips.

Normally, the office would have used three separate carriages for that route. Horses needed rest. They needed water, and they struggled in heavy city traffic.

The Model One did not care about rest. It only needed fuel.

At twenty past eight, Wallace pulled back into the service court.

Aldren was standing by the wall with his notebook. "Any trouble?"

"None, sir."

"Fuel consumption?"

Wallace checked his small pocket log. "A bit better than the company estimate."

"Engine temperature?"

"Normal."

"Brakes?"

"Firm."

Aldren wrote a quick line. "Next run. North station."

Wallace blinked. "I just got back."

Aldren looked at him. "Is the motorcar tired?"

"No."

"Then neither are you."

The clerk beside them laughed.

Wallace shook his head, shifting back into gear. "I’ve figured out the real problem with these things."

The clerk looked over. "What’s that?"

"Horses get breaks."

By the end of the week, the novelty had worn off.

That was exactly what Aldren wanted.

People stopped crowding around when Sixty-Four entered the yard. The stable hands went back to their work. Clerks stopped asking for rides just to see how it felt.

It was no longer an experiment. It was daily transport.

The first mechanical issue happened on Friday afternoon.

Wallace was turning into the court when he felt a strange drag on the steering wheel. The car pulled slightly to the left.

He brought the vehicle to a halt.

Aldren walked over immediately. "What is it?"

"Steering feels off, sir. Pulling left."

Aldren flipped his fault log open. "When did it start?"

"About two kilometers back."

"Is it safe to drive?"

Wallace hesitated. "Probably."

Aldren looked at him sharply.

Wallace cleared his throat. "I don’t know, sir."

"Good answer."

Number Sixty-Four was taken out of service on the spot.

A company mechanic arrived from the city depot forty minutes later. He jacked up the front axle, spun the wheel, and checked the steering box.

Then he smiled.

Aldren did not smile. "What failed?"

"Nothing failed, sir. It’s just tire pressure."

Wallace stared at him. "A soft tire did that?"

"Slow leak," the mechanic said, pointing to the rubber tread. "Picked up a small nail somewhere on the road."

"How long to fix?" Aldren asked.

"Twenty minutes with a patch and pump."

"Could Wallace have changed it himself?"

The mechanic pointed to the bracket behind the rear seat. "He has a complete spare wheel right there."

Aldren looked at the spare wheel, then at Wallace. "Teach him how to change it."

Wallace looked horrified. "I’m a driver, sir."

The mechanic grinned. "Not anymore, friend."

The next morning, every driver assigned to the trial was given a two-hour practical lesson in the courtyard: tire changing, spark-plug cleaning, oil checks, and chain adjustments.

Wallace stood by the car with grease on his forearms, grumbling under his breath. "This was never part of driving a horse."

The instructor laughed. "Did your horse ever get a stone in its shoe?"

"Of course."

"What did you do?"

"Pulled it out."

"Same thing. Take the lug nuts off."

At the end of the first week, Aldren sat alone in his office reviewing the numbers.

Distance traveled: 612 kilometers.

Dispatch runs: 41.

Passenger trips: 18.

Major mechanical breakdowns: 0.

Minor faults: 1 (punctured tire).

Days out of service: 0.

He turned the page, comparing the figures directly against the horse-drawn fleet.

In tight, gridlocked alleys, the motorcar moved no faster than a dray. But on the open avenues and connector roads, it cut travel times in half. More importantly, it could run all day without waiting for fresh teams.

The weaknesses were equally clear.

It needed trained drivers. It relied on fuel supplies that were only sold in a few depots. If a part broke outside the city, ordinary blacksmiths could not fix it.

Aldren dipped his pen in ink and wrote at the bottom of the summary:

Promising. High utility for continuous dispatch work. Long-distance capabilities require further review.

He closed the ledger. Three weeks remained.