When Do We Start Selling Part 1

"When do we open the order books?"

Ernest Teucher didn't look up from the assembly ledger. His pencil made three neat check marks against a column of cold-rolled steel deliveries. "Order books for what, Arthur?"

Arthur Pendelton stood on the opposite side of the walnut desk, three heavy manila folders clamped firmly under one arm, looking like a man whose patience was being taxed by a willful child. "The motorcar, Ernest. The four-wheeled machine manufactured by the motor company whose corporate charter I have spent the last six weeks defending from the provincial tax commissioners."

Ernest turned a leaf. "The Model One."

"Yes. The Model One."

"We can't sell it."

Arthur blinked once, very slowly. "I beg your pardon?"

"We cannot sell it."

A profound silence descended upon the third-floor office. Outside the tall sash windows, the distant, rhythmic hum of Machine Works Number Three vibrated through the floorboards.