"And who might you two be?" Locke asked as he approached.
"You must be Mr. Locke, the owner of this farm?"
Agent Smith instinctively pulled out his badge. "Special Investigator, Department of Agriculture. We're here about last night's weather satellite crash—"
"Ah, that."
Locke nodded, then waved a hand to send the sulking Dio and the bewildered Clark away from the tractor.
"You see," he continued, flashing the kind of simple, good-natured smile unique to American farmers, "this satellite suddenly fell into my fields, blew up without warning, then just… disappeared. I've been worried sick, wondering what kind of evidence I'd even need to file a claim with you folks."
"Never thought you'd come knocking yourselves."
He rubbed his rough palms together, his sun-browned face creasing into lines of worry—looking every bit the hard-working farmer anxious about his livelihood.
"Then why tell the kids it was herbicide?" Vank asked suspiciously.
"About that, sir…"
Locke lowered his voice, pointing toward the two children still peeking curiously from beside the tractor. "I haven't told them the truth yet."
"You know how kids are—if they hear the word 'radiation,' their mouths will run. By the end of the week, all of Kansas will know. And then who's going to buy my oats?"
"You don't need to worry about that, Mr. Locke," Vank said, adjusting his glasses. "The radiation here is decaying rapidly. If we'd come a few days later, it might've been down to zero."
"What?!"
"You expect me to trust some hunk of scrap you wave around for a few seconds?!" Locke suddenly raised his voice, startling a few nearby hens into flapping away. "My second uncle's cousin grew potatoes in Chernobyl. Now the eggplants in his fields glow in the dark!"
"Can you guarantee my oats won't start glowing?!"
Spittle sprayed across Smith's face. He awkwardly wiped it away, his mind flashing to his cousin back in Nebraska—who'd nearly gone bankrupt last year when GMO corn prices collapsed.
His voice softened. "Mr. Locke, I understand your concern…"
"Understand?"
Locke suddenly snatched Vank's scanner, dragging a muddy finger across the screen. "Then explain why this patch of grass looks like it's been hit by lightning?"
"Well, Mr. Locke," Vank scratched his head, "the truth is, the alloy in that satellite was extremely unsta—"
"Cough!Cough!"
Smith cut him off with a loud, deliberate cough. "Agent Vank. That material is classified."
An awkward silence fell. Then Locke removed his cowboy hat and pressed it to his chest. His voice trembled ever so slightly.
"Sir… my family's whole life depends on these few acres."
"You know me—I'm just an honest farmer." He pointed toward the small house in the distance, smoke curling from its chimney. "See that barn? I still owe five years on the loan I took to build it."
The sunlight caught the faint redness at the corner of his eyes. Even Vank felt a pang of pity.
Smith's throat tightened. He thought of his grandfather, once forced to sell his land under pressure from an agricultural company.
Damn it… he knew better than anyone how cruelly small farmers had been squeezed these past years.
"How about this," Smith said, patting Locke's shoulder. "We'll push the paperwork for you. You'll get that compensation, guaranteed."
"Mr. Smith!" Vank protested. "That's not procedure—"
Smith shot him a glare, then winked at Locke. "We're all farm boys at heart, Mr. Locke."
"Let's just say this wreck stays buried here and turns into fertilizer."
...
Ten minutes later, the black Chevrolet rumbled off down the country road.
Only when it vanished at the far end did Dio wander over at a leisurely pace.
"Chernobyl, huh?" he said, mimicking his father's earlier sobbing tone. "What if our oats really do start glowing?"
SMACK!
Locke smacked his son on the head.
"You little brat—who told you to talk to strangers just now?"
...
Inside the Chevrolet:
Vank sat silently, listening through his headset.
The bug he'd planted in the tractor just before leaving was already transmitting the family's voices—
[Dad, can we use the compensation money to buy a new game console?]
[Buy your head! First copy Safe Farming Regulations, Article 38, twenty times! Who told you to sneak off and drive the tractor again?!]
[It was Clark's idea! He said we should take it for a spin!]
[Damn it, Dio, you're dumping it on me again!]
Vank listened to this string of utterly mundane bickering, until suddenly the feed dissolved into a harsh electric squeal, followed by a sharp crack!
Clearly, the bug had just been crushed under a wheel.
He yanked the headset off, rubbing his ears, which were still ringing.
"Damn it!" He slammed the headset against the dashboard. "That's another cut to the budget."
Behind the wheel, Smith drove one-handed, puffing lazily on his pipe. Catching sight of his partner's stormy face in the rearview mirror, he blew a smoke ring.
"Told you already—high-tech toys don't last long out in the sticks. If you ask me, keep it simple. Just put someone on them."
"And who, exactly?"
Vank sneered. "Your nephew, the bartender? Or my cousin, the one hopelessly addicted to Japanese anime?"
He ticked off on his fingers: "Surveillance means stipends. Compensation requires special funding. And if we need to call in the 'cleaners'… not to mention you—"
Unable to stand his whining any longer, Smith suddenly jerked the wheel, slamming the Chevy to a stop at the roadside.
"Hey! Smith, why the hell are you—"
Vank's words died in his throat. The old agent had spun around, grabbed him by the tie, and dragged him close. Sparks from the pipe nearly singed his cheek.
"Rookie, farmers aren't people you mess with."
"That guy back there looked mild enough, but I could tell—deep down, he's volatile. If you don't shut your damn mouth, what happens when he files a complaint? When this blows up and the higher-ups find out?!"
Smith's voice was low, but it carried an iron authority.
"Vank, I've been in this department thirty years. I know how this game works better than anyone."
"Partners come and go. I'm the only one still here."
"Now tell me. Do you want to keep whining about budgets—or do you want to stay alive?"
"I—I just…"
Seeing the old man like a lion, mane bristling, Vank swallowed hard. It was the first time he'd ever seen Smith this furious.
"I just wanted… to save a little money."
"There's no need to save. We make enough."
Smith restarted the engine, his tone returning to its usual lazy drawl. "Run it through my account. Send that farmer ten grand."
"…Alright." Vank had nothing left to say.
...
Back on the farm, Locke glanced at the crushed bug—Star Platinum had tossed it neatly under the wheel earlier. He let out a quiet breath.
Better safe than sorry.
He had to hand it to the little Superman.
Not even two Stand users had caught it, but Clark had.
"Clark, I'll give you an extra venison leg tonight." Locke ruffled the curly-haired boy's head, ignoring Dio's grinding teeth beside him. "You're already noticing things that even me and Dio missed."