Chapter 273: The Road Out of Town

The weekly summary reached Ernest’s desk on Monday morning.

Arthur walked into the Helmarte office, waving the paper like a flag. "They like it, Ernest! Over six hundred kilometers without a single engine failure!"

Ernest took the sheet and read the lines carefully.

Hollen looked up from his mug of coffee. "Any broken gears?"

"None," Ernest said. "One flat tire."

"Hardly our fault," Hollen grunted. "Unless you built the nail."

Ernest kept reading, tapping the paper against his desk. "Six hundred and twelve kilometers in six days. Forty-one dispatches."

Arthur smiled. "That’s fantastic news."

"It means heavy usage," Ernest said. "Heavy usage exposes weak points faster."

"Can you not celebrate for five minutes?" Arthur asked.

Ernest pointed to a line near the bottom of the notes. "Wallace complained about the cold-start procedure. He says it takes too long during urgent calls."

Hollen chuckled. "Three levers, a fuel valve, and a hand crank. It’s too complicated for a man who used to just shout ’get up’ at a horse."

"It shouldn’t be complicated," Ernest said.

He knew what modern cars used—electric self-starters. But an electric starter needed a heavy battery, a charging generator, extra wiring, and a reliable motor. That meant more weight, more money, and more things to break. The Model One was built to be cheap and tough.

He made a quick note on his pad: Simplify carburetor choke lever. Add clear position marks to ignition quadrant.

"The report mentions something else," Arthur said, leaning over the desk. "Aldren wants to know if we can build a dedicated mail body."

Ernest paused. "A mail body?" ℴ

"Single bench seat up front," Arthur explained, using his hands to sketch the shape in the air. "Enclosed wooden box in the back with a lock. Keep the documents dry."

Ernest pulled a blank drafting sheet toward himself. "A light delivery van."

Hollen groaned. "Arthur, shut your mouth. You’ve set him off again."

"A shorter rear overhang," Ernest murmured, his pencil already moving across the paper. "Shift the cargo weight forward over the axle."

"Locking brass latches," Arthur added, grinning.

Hollen looked at the ceiling. "We haven’t even finished delivering the first two hundred cars, and now we’re building delivery wagons."

The second week tested the machine harder.

On Monday morning, Wallace flooded the engine. He pumped the choke too many times, soaked the spark plugs in gasoline, and had to spend eight minutes clearing the cylinders while a courier tapped his foot impatiently on the stones.

On Wednesday, a heavy rainstorm hit Helmarte.

The canvas roof leaked along the front seam, dumping cold water directly onto Wallace’s left knee for two hours.

He arrived back at the court drenched and furious.

Aldren wrote in his log: Weather protection inadequate during prolonged downpours.

Ernest received the complaint that afternoon. He didn’t argue. He sent an order straight to the trim shop in Belfast: double-stitch the front canvas seams and add a rubber gutter flap above the windshield rail.

Despite the small annoyances, the staff had grown completely attached to the car.

Whenever an urgent dispatch came in, clerks argued over who got to take Number Sixty-Four instead of a carriage.

By the end of the second week, the odometer had reached 1,487 kilometers.

Then came a completely different request.

It did not come from Aldren. It came from the Department of Crown Forests, located in the same administrative wing.

Four officials needed to travel to an estate near the western border to inspect a timber parcel.

The distance was roughly one hundred and twenty kilometers one way.

Rough provincial roads. No city depots. No mechanics.

Arthur brought the dispatch into the office, his eyes wide. "They want to take Sixty-Four outside the capital for two full days."

Hollen lowered his pipe. "That’s a real run."

Ernest read the request.

This was no longer a city route where a company mechanic could ride a bicycle over with a wrench in twenty minutes. If the car broke down fifty miles out, it was entirely on its own.

Arthur looked nervous. "Should we send a repair wagon to follow them?"

"No," Ernest said immediately.

Arthur blinked. "No?"

"If a customer buys a Model One in Belmont, does a factory mechanic follow him down the road?" Ernest asked. "If the car can’t survive a three-hundred-kilometer trip without our men holding its hand, it isn’t ready."

"We give them the standard roadside tool kit," Hollen agreed, nodding slowly. "Two spare inner tubes, a hand pump, and a spare can of oil. Nothing else."

Ernest signed the authorization slip. "Let them take it."

At twenty past six the next morning, Number Sixty-Four rolled out through the palace gates.

Wallace sat behind the wheel, wearing a heavy driving coat and leather gloves. Three middle-aged officials sat in the other seats, their coats buttoned up against the morning chill. A fourth passenger had been cut from the trip because their leather trunks were too bulky for the rear rack.

Wallace had simply pointed at the luggage and told them, "Baron Teucher said three bags, gentlemen. Take the train if you want a wardrobe."

The car cleared the city limits within forty minutes.

The paved avenues gave way to hard-packed gravel turnpikes. The stone houses thinned out, replaced by wide green pastures and autumn woods.

Wallace pushed the hand throttle forward.

The Model One surged up to thirty kilometers per hour, its twin-cylinder engine humming with an unbroken, rhythmic drone.

Tup-tup-tup-tup-tup.

No smoke. No shuddering. Just cool air rushing past the small glass windscreen.

At kilometer forty, the road turned to rough limestone ballast. The suspension bounced steadily, but the leaf springs soaked up the ruts without bottoming out.

At kilometer eighty-five, they stopped at a wayside tavern for lunch.

While the passengers went inside to eat, Wallace walked a slow circle around the chassis. He checked the tire treads. He touched the wheel hubs to ensure the bearings weren’t running hot. He checked the oil dip-rod.

Everything was in order.

One of the officials stepped out of the tavern, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Do you inspect the iron every time we stop, driver?"

"Company orders," Wallace said, wiping his hands on a waste cloth. "A machine is a lot cheaper to fix before it stops rolling."

The man nodded, clearly impressed.

They climbed back aboard and resumed the journey.

At kilometer one hundred and three, Wallace heard it.

Tick.

He frowned, leaning his ear toward the floorboards.

Tick.

There it was again. A tiny, rhythmic tap.

He slowed down to twenty kilometers per hour.

The passenger beside him looked over. "Is something wrong?"

"Not sure yet," Wallace muttered.

Tick.

Tick.

Wallace pulled the car smoothly onto the grassy verge and killed the engine.

He hopped down and checked the engine bay. The belts were tight. The valve rockers were bathing in oil. The fan spun freely.

He closed the hood, walked around the side, and knelt down by the front wheels.

He shook the left wheel. Solid.

He grabbed the right wheel and ran his fingers over the wooden spokes.

Near the hub, one hickory spoke wiggled slightly in its iron socket. It wasn’t cracked, but the wood had shrunk in the dry weather, leaving a millimeter of play. Every time the wheel rotated under load, the loose joint clicked against the rim plate.

Tick.

Wallace stared at the loose spoke.

The nearest Teucher depot was over a hundred kilometers behind them. There were no engineers here. No factory foremen. No Ernest Teucher.

Just Wallace, three government clerks, and an empty country road.

A month ago, Wallace would have sat on the grass and cursed until a horse wagon came along.

Instead, he turned around, reached into the small toolbox beneath the passenger seat, and pulled out an adjustable wrench and a brass wedge.

The three officials watched him from the car.

"Can you repair it?" one asked nervously.

Wallace looked at the tool in his hand, then back at the wheel.

A slow, confident grin spread across his face.

"We’re about to find out, sir."