Locke: Gentlemen, You Know, I'm Just an Honest Farmer

"Who are these two?" Locke asked as he approached.

"You must be Mr. Locke, the owner of this farm?"

Agent Smith reflexively pulled out his identification. "Special Investigator with the Department of Agriculture, here regarding the weather satellite crash last night."

"Ah, that."

Locke nodded, then waved at the two children, shooing away the disgruntled Dio and bewildered Clark.

"You see," he said with the guileless smile unique to American farmers, "that satellite suddenly fell into my field, exploded without warning, and then vanished for no reason. It's been worrying me sick. I don't even know what evidence I'm supposed to use to demand compensation from you."

"I didn't expect you to come knocking yourselves."

Rubbing his rough palms together, Locke's sun-browned face creased with worry, making him look every bit the simple farmer fretting over his livelihood.

"Then why did you tell the children this place had been sprayed with herbicide?" Vank asked doubtfully.

"About that, sir..." Locke lowered his voice and pointed at the two children peeking around the tractor in the distance. "I haven't told them about this yet."

"You know, if that satellite really has radiation, those two kids definitely won't be able to keep their mouths shut. Then all of Kansas will know, and the oats my family grows..."

"You don't need to worry about that, Mr. Locke." Vank adjusted his glasses. "The radiation levels in this area are continuously declining. It's even possible that if we'd come a few days later, the radiation here would have decayed completely to zero."

"What?!"

"You can wave that chunk of metal around a couple times and guarantee it's safe?" Locke suddenly raised his voice, startling several speckled chickens that had wandered close into flapping away. "My second great-uncle's cousin's nephew grows potatoes in Chernobyl, and now the eggplants growing in his fields glow!"

"Can you guarantee my oats won't glow in the future?!"

Agent Smith was sprayed full in the face with spit. He awkwardly wiped his face.

The old agent thought of his cousin back home in Nebraska, who had nearly gone bankrupt last year because his genetically modified corn wouldn't sell.

His tone softened involuntarily. "Mr. Locke, I understand your concerns."

"Understand?"

Locke snatched Vank's detector and dragged his fingers across the screen, leaving several muddy streaks. "Then explain this to me. Why is this patch of grass dead like it got struck by lightning?"

"Well, Mr. Locke..." Vank scratched his head. "Actually, it's because this metal is extremely unst—"

"Ahem!"

Smith abruptly coughed to cut him off. "Agent Vank, the material is classified."

An eerie silence fell over the scene.

Until Locke suddenly took off his cowboy hat and pressed it to his chest, his voice even trembling a little.

"Sir. My family depends on these few acres to survive."

"You know, I'm just an honest farmer." He pointed toward the small house with smoke rising from its chimney in the distance. "See that barn? I still have five years left on the loan I took out to build it."

Sunlight shone on his slightly reddened eyes, and even Vank could not bear to watch.

Smith's Adam's apple bobbed as he remembered how his grandfather had once been forced to sell his land by an agricultural corporation.

Sigh.

How could he not know how miserably these honest, hardworking farmers had been squeezed by agricultural associations in recent years?

"Here's what we'll do."

The old agent patted Locke on the shoulder. "We'll help you get the paperwork done. You'll definitely receive this compensation!"

"Mr. Smith!" Vank hurriedly tried to stop him. "This doesn't follow proced—"

The old agent shot his younger colleague a glare, then turned and winked at Locke. "We're both sons of farmers, Mr. Locke."

"Let this matter rot in the fields as fertilizer."

Ten minutes later, the black Chevrolet drove away from the farm.

Only after it had completely vanished at the end of the country road did Dio slowly wander over.

"Chernobyl?" He mimicked his father's tearful tone from earlier. "What if our oats glow?"

Smack!

Locke slapped his son on the head.

"You little brat, who told you to talk nonsense to strangers just now?"

Inside the Chevrolet:

Vank listened quietly through his headphones.

The conversation among the father and two sons came through the bug.

Before leaving, while no one was paying attention, he had secretly flicked a listening device into a gap in the tractor—

[Dad, can the compensation money buy us a new game console?]

[Buy my ass! Go copy Article 38 of the Farm Safety Rules twenty times first! Who told you to secretly drive the tractor behind my back again?!]

[It was Clark's idea. He said we should take the car out for a drive—]

[You bastard, Dio! You made me take the blame again!]

He silently listened to that long string of plain, unremarkable conversation until a shrill burst of static came through the bug, followed by a sharp crack—

Apparently, it had accidentally been crushed beneath a wheel.

Vank yanked off his headphones and rubbed his aching ears.

"Damn it!" He viciously threw the headphones onto the dashboard. "There goes another chunk of the budget."

Driving the Chevrolet one-handed, old Smith leisurely held a pipe between his teeth and glanced at his colleague's livid face through the rearview mirror.

"I told you, high-tech gadgets don't take well to the countryside." He blew out a smoke ring. "If you ask me, we should keep it simple and send someone to tail them."

"Send who?"

Vank sneered. "Your nephew who works as a bartender? Or my cousin who spends all day obsessed with anime from that island nation?"

He counted on his fingers.

"Surveillance requires allowances, the compensation has to come from the special budget, and that's not even counting if we need to deploy the 'cleaners.' Oh, and you—"

Apparently unable to stand Vank's nagging any longer, Smith suddenly jerked the wheel. The Chevrolet screeched to a stop by the roadside.

"Hey! Smith, why did you stop—"

Vank never finished, because the old agent turned around and grabbed his tie. Sparks from his pipe nearly flew into Vank's face.

"Rookie, farmers aren't easy to deal with."

"Look at that guy just now. He seemed mild-mannered, but I could tell that deep down, he's probably got one hell of a temper."

"If you don't shut his mouth, do you want that farmer to go complain to the authorities? Do you want this to blow up and get the people above involved?!" His voice was extremely low, yet carried unquestionable authority. "Vank, I've been in this department for thirty years. I understand some things better than anyone."

"My partners have come and gone, batch after batch. Only I'm still here."

"So tell me."

"Do you want to keep complaining about the budget, or do you want to stay alive?"

"I... I was just..."

Facing Smith, whose beard and hair bristled like a lion's mane, the young agent—seeing the old agent lose his temper so badly for the first time—swallowed. "I just wanted to save some of the budget."

"No need to save it. We get paid enough."

Smith started the car again, his tone returning to its lazy drawl. "Use my account. Transfer ten thousand dollars to that farmer."

"Okay." Vank had nothing more to say.

Glancing at the listening device Star Platinum had tossed beneath the wheel, Locke let out a sigh of relief.

You could never be too careful around people.

All he could say was, Little Superman truly lived up to his name.

He had easily noticed a detail that even two Stand users had failed to detect.

"Clark, I'll add a whole deer leg to your dinner tonight." With Dio glaring so hard his teeth nearly cracked beside them, Locke rubbed the curly-haired boy's head and encouraged him. "You can already notice things that Dio and I can't."