Where Southern Cross the Dog by Allen Whitley

yet. The professor says it’s still experimental. Don’t want to get everyone excited for nothing.”
    â€œWhat are you out at Gilman’s for?” Collins asked.
    â€œPicking up Rachel,” Travis said. “But I’m early, so I thought I’d take a look at the harvester.”
    â€œNot much to see,” Collins said, removing his cap and wiping his forehead with his sleeve.
    They watched as Professor Conrad Higson, perched on the monstrosity, requested tools from his assistants and made the final mechanical adjustments to his harvester.
    â€œWhen was the last test?” Travis asked.
    â€œIt’s been a while,” Wilson said.
    â€œCouple months at least,” Collins said.
    â€œI think he’s been up in Oxford conducting some research,” said Wilson. “I also heard he was doing a little work with the Agricultural Extension Service in Starkville.”
    Finally, Higson stood up on the machine and turned to the gathering. “Well, all right, chaps,” he began, his peculiar accent and word choices a result of having spent part of his youth in England before his family returned to the coal mines of Germany. “We’re going to start it up and see how we do.”
    Hank Gilman walked over and stood next to Wilson. His arms were folded across his chest. “If Higson doesn’t get this thing to work—” Gilman said, shaking his head.
    With help from an assistant on the ground, the professor turned the ignition, and the giant machine sputtered to life. It backfired once or twice at first, which caused a few in the crowd to flinch, but it finally settled into a low growl.
    Higson pressed on the gas and the engine roared a little louder. He raised a hand with his thumb in the air, then reached for thegearshift. The harvester bucked into motion and started down a path parallel to the rows of cotton.
    Travis watched the machine slowly rumble through the field, its massive width stretched across five rows of cotton. The stalks passed underneath the machine, and the cotton bolls were fed between two arms that yanked the bolls from the stalks and tossed them into a hopper attached to the rear of the harvester.
    At ten yards, the harvester appeared to be cleaning the stalks fairly well, but at fifteen the crowd heard metal grinding on metal. Before Higson could shut it down, the arms were entangled with one another, twisting and bending in every direction. Finally, the harvester locked up and quit moving forward.
    Higson turned off the ignition and stared at his newly spun web of steel. “Well there, I guess that just about does it for today. Wouldn’t everyone agree?”
    His assistants rushed to the harvester trying to piece together exactly what happened. The crowd let out whistles and murmurs of exasperation as it began to disperse.
    â€œHe’s never going to get that thing working,” Gilman said. “This is the one thing that could change the face of the South, and our friend Higson can’t make it work. I’ll be paying someone to work my doggone plantation ‘til I die. You know how much money I’ve sunk into this?” Gilman didn’t wait for an answer. He waved his hand at the professor in frustration and stomped off.
    â€œHe’s obviously none too happy,” Collins said as he, Wilson, and Travis watched Gilman get in his car and leave.
    â€œYep,” Wilson said. “Seems he wants to get rid of his sharecroppers and day laborers once and for all.”
    Collins stared down the road at Gilman, pulled out a notepad and pencil, and wrote something down. “They sure are a heap of trouble,” he said, nodding. “Of course, we got someone trying to do that for him.” He chuckled at his own joke.
    â€œGot to have ’em, though,” Travis said. “Else that cotton’s staying in the field.”
    â€œBut not all of them,” Collins said. “That contraption will