Her own early years in engineering returned to her. She remembered a supervisor dismissing an idea because it came from a young woman rather than a senior designer, and the satisfaction of later presenting the measurement that proved her point. The experience had not made her immune to prejudice; she had caught herself underestimating people over the years. But it had taught her to recognize the danger of deciding a problem's answer before the evidence was examined.
She looked at the boy's face, the split seam of his shoe, and the oil stain spreading along the book in his backpack. He had been working all day. He was visibly tired. Yet the moment he bent beside Black Fury, the tension in his shoulders changed from frightened endurance to complete attention.
Owen put both palms lightly against the cooling engine cases. He knew the gesture looked strange to the crowd. It was not prayer, and it was not a trick. Thomas had taught him that a machine's vibration was physical information, something the fingertips could register even when the ear struggled against surrounding noise. This engine was not running, but the memory of the last attempted start was still clear enough for him to know where he wanted to listen next.
"You need it turned over?" asked the man with the stopwatch.
"Not yet," Owen said. "I need to see how it's been put together first."
Garrett threw up his hands. "Listen to the professor. Five minutes and he wants to admire the artwork."
The crowd laughed, though less freely now. Owen leaned toward the cam cover and noticed that two of its fasteners had been left finger-tight after the earlier examinations. That small fact mattered enormously. He would not have to waste time breaking loose every bolt on a neglected assembly, and Walter Steel's custom arrangement was more accessible than it appeared from a distance.
He directed his flashlight along a seam beneath the cover. There, where a previous mechanic had scraped away old grime, he could see a reference mark that did not align with its companion. It was only a fraction of an inch out of position, but the difference confirmed what the engine's last labored turns had suggested. Owen's heart quickened.
He inspected the carburetor next, not opening it yet but looking at the stain beneath the bowl and the way the fuel line sat. There was a wet shine along one edge despite attempts to dry the area. The machine had almost certainly been receiving more fuel than it could burn. An engine with that fault could flood repeatedly while an ignorant observer blamed everything on ignition.