The Mark of Iron

Ernest turned his head, his dark eyebrows raised. "Why not?"

"Because you'll spend three weeks testing paint formulas to see if the rain washes them off," Wallace said.

A sudden rumble of laughter broke out along the table. Even Aldren smiled behind his hand.

Ernest scowled down at his notes, though his jaw relaxed. "Legibility is not a joke, Wallace."

"No, my lord," Wallace said respectfully. "It just takes a long time."

***

By mid-afternoon, the argument had moved from speed to something far more contentious: the drivers themselves.

A wealthy alderman who owned several flour mills leaned across the table, his gold rings catching the light. "If a gentleman has paid seven hundred thousand riels for a motorcar, he has the right to drive it wherever he pleases. We do not require gentlemen to hold a paper license to drive a private phaeton."

Wallace shook his head before he could stop himself.