The problem with row 79.

  Lucky puts on his boots, hat, and sunglasses; glugs down as much water a he can, jams the binoculars up into the tool rack, grabs the thermos; all in the fast minute the tower travels down.   After he hooks the tower to the deck's ladder, he hangs by his hands from the floor hatch for a bit, the heat rolls off the deck, he drops down and walks the thorax to the utility hatch in the floor.  Gingerly opens the little hot door and releases a ratchet strap - thump, goes the powered hand tow to the ground.  Stamps down a big a clump of cord grass the hand tow is snarled in;  grabs the handle, pulls the brake and guides it out from under the rig towards row seventy nine.

Strategic ignorance of cognitive dissonance.

       On the sat view of his area, little white dots scattered out at almost even intervals, the seeds of an afternoon thunderstorm.  Humidity and heat push it's way upward into the cool heights so fast that it seemed as if he was watching a time lapse of the event, the breeze died and the Kestrel had to flap its wings to keep it's position, giving lucky a little jolt.  "Strange, how long has that bird been there?" the bird hovered - it's body moving - and head staying still, keeping an eye on Lucky...  The bird gave up, soared down  just across the top of the corn field going out of sight, in search of elevation somewhere out on that flat treeless landscape, he stared on as if he could still see it.  The cloud was still growing at a rapid pace, the breeze was dead, temperature: one hundred five, the overlay magically over each hog showing is approximate position in the field, lucky took a swig out of his beat up plastic water bottle, the shiny thermos glaring in the sun, sealed his bag of chips.  lucky relaxed and systematically crept his view outward to the peripheral, all the sound, movement, heat, humidity, odors, and sub-aural vibrations occurring in real-time; no past, no future, no plan for the next moment, no longing for the past, every sense was engaged in the flow, filling up his briefly empty mind with the minutia of now.    

Oxygen source has bad breath.

Accessing the latest map required a confounded intricately complicated encrypted pass code.  Lucky sat under the shadow of the rig, sharing his immediate space with a circus troop of insects; not altogether enjoying their clumsy, chaotic, precision aerial maneuvers; or that particular, bug brand humor, that required them to crawl into his nose,ears,and eye's; the bugs had finally found their audience and were doing their best to keep his attentions focused on the breath taking, hilarious, drama of the insect follies.  In an eloquent fit, lucky gave a review in the form of a monologue, orated before the ranks and rows of corn.  They just stood there, moving ever so lightly, in the wave of halitosis that would've been called a breeze on a tropical island; exhaling an oxygenated perfume of corn, hot, humid, and sweet; not sweet as in fresh water, but sweet as in a rotten lump of cane sugar.  The map was open and lucky made sure it was to date by zooming in to his location at the cut out, making sure it was his rig and his feet, sticking out from under the row hog hive in the thorax portion of his mother rig.

Psychoactive corrosive Ivy infestation.

Perennial maze had become the crop of choice, very little tillage was needed - in fact many fields went years with out any tillage.  This was great because of the low input cost associated with such a crop made wide profit margins, but problems were developing; the ivy was the worst, vine's grow better than most other plants in a high CO2 atmosphere, easily out performing the perennial maze, several species of ivy have formed a symbiotic relationship, enabling those plants to form a biological mega-structure, many of the symbiont that form that matrix have become extremely toxic borrowing certain traits from the poison ivy and poison oak that make up a substantial part of that web of hideous life, and incorporating them in their own genetic make up, and in do so have showed signs of extreme toxicity.  A new variant of morning glory excretes a psychoactive scent that utilizes the impulse control in the more complex organisms, this is perhaps the most unsettling of the ivy's; "the ivy" as it is called is resistant to all know forms of herbicide, robotic plow systems can be used but the plant material is highly corrosive usually disabling most machines.  Burning it was the most used method of eradication, but the smoke is noxious; the weather conditions to be just right, proper authorities alerted, and any down wind residents fifty mile's or less away - evacuated.

Scrumdiddlyumptious mochi prevents early morning disaster.

    Sat down in the wet grass opened his sandwich bag, Ted gave him a look, Lucky was like "wut ?" Ted pointed no where in particular and... "you know if you'd get here earlier you wouldn't have'ta be out in that heat."  Lucky took a bite of his delicious egg sandwich, chewed, and slurped his iced tea.  "Look at Garcia, he gets here so early he's usually gone before ya even leave your apartment."  Lucky looked in his bag for a treat, the egg sandwich came with a treat.  Ted shouts down to Garcia  "Garcia what time cha get here." "Early" Garcia shouts back walking down the side of the shed to his first call.  Ted looked up at pyramid five, the irrigation was shutting off from the top terrace to the bottom terraces in sequence - a mildly interesting event.  The last bit shut off and he assumed an unfocused, and slightly over dramatic pose, " you've always been like this, so I should get used to it.  If it doesn't bug you - it should't bug me."  Lucky had to finish his yummy raspberry mochi and fully recover from it's effects before he could answer - "Yep... I'm fine with it, it's not as good as second shift, but it's less hectic than driving that rig around in the morning rush."  He sat there for hour or more moving down the side of the grass covered shed just enough to keep out of the sun,  going in to hang out on the dock after the shade ran completely out, thankfully Ted was called up, and finally he was the only one left.  Just as he was getting hungry, and about to break into his lunch, he was called up.

Riding the man lift down.

  Lucky stared at the wall of the metal tube creeping past, smoothed by the gaskets that fit the buckets tight, polished by the backs of people leaning on the moving wall, some kid had dragged a green crayon over the wall on the way down, making line that Lucky stared at.  It swayed back and forth then sprung quickly with a snap, then back and forth with an occasional loop,  suddenly squished up against the belt and a hand nearly knocking his off the belt handle, " Oops sorry I didn't see ya" and the invasion was over - the tenth floor was full of nitwits.  Man lifts were slow, a slight hazard, and only designed for one rider per bucket, and were modeled after the the man lift in a grain elevator; the lift had been the favorite part of his job at the CO - OP, he would go out of his way to take a ride, they were a just big enough, two feet on the platform attached to a belt with a handle, no walls.  The line of green crayon went right and and ended, and it was time jump off into the main floor lobby, packed full of school kids, back packs, lunch box's; people heading out or coming back from work, loiters, holiday makers, a sales man, and a tour group being shouted at by a lady in a funny hat.  Lucky fought his way through and was only stopped once, talked at by one of his mom friends - she had a problem with her implant and couldn't get on the net, and bla bla blu, bla ble bla - "Ya might as well stop the inoculation and just get infected, that's the only reliable link" shrugged his shoulders, and was out the door walking down the street.