Wheels (11 page)

Adam caught an approving glance from Jake Earlham and knew why. He had
succeeded in turning the talk from defensive to positive, a tactic which
the public relations department was constantly urging on company
spokesmen.
"One effect of all the changes," Adam went on, "is that interiors of cars,
especially from a driver's viewpoint, will look startlingly different
within the next few years. The in-car computer will modify most of our
present instruments. For example, the gas gauge as we know it is on the
way out; in its place will be an indicator showing how many miles of
driving your fuel is good for at present speed. On a TV-type screen in
front of the
driver, route information and highway warning signs will appear, triggered
by magn
etic sensors in the road. Having to look out for highway signs is
already old-fashioned and dangerous; often a driver misses them; when
they're inside the car, he won't. Then if you travel a route which is new,
you'll slip in a cassette, the way you do a tape cartridge for entertainment
now. According to where you are, and keyed in a similar way to the road
signs, you'll receive spoken directions and visual signals on the screen.
And almost at once the ordinary car radio will have a transmitter, as well
as a receiver, operating on citizens' band. It's to be a nationwide system,
so that a driver can call for aid-of any kind-whenever he needs it
.”

AP was on his feet, turning to the p.r. vice
-
president. "If I can use a
phone . . . ;'
Jake Earlham slid
ped from his window seat and went around to the door. He
motioned with his pipe for AP to follow him. "I'll find you somewhere
private
.”

The others were getting up.
Bob Irvin of the News waited until the wire service reporter had left,
then asked, "About that on-board computer. Are you putting it in the
Orion
.”

God damn that Irvin! Adam knew that he was boxed. The answer was "yes,"
but it was secret. On the other hand, if he replied "no," eventually the
journalists would discover he had lied.
Adam protested, "You know I can't talk about the Orion, Bob
.”

The columnist grinned. The absence of an outright denial had told him all
he needed.
"Well," the Newsweek brunette said; now that she was standing, she
appeared taller and more lissome than when seated. "You trickily steered the whole thing away from what we came here to talk about
.”

"Not me
.”

Adam met her eyes directly; they were ice blue, he noted, and
derisively appraising. He found himself wishing they bad met in a
different way and less as adversaries. He smiled. "I'm just a simple
auto worker who tries to see both sides
.”

"Really
.”

The eyes remained fixed, still mirroring derision. "Then bow
about an honest answer to this: Is the outlook inside the auto industry
really changing
.”

Newsweek glanced at her notebook. "Are the big auto
makers truly responding to the times-accepting new ideas about community
responsibility, developing a social conscience, being realistic about
changing values, including values about cars? Do you genuinely believe
that consumerism is here to stay? Is there really a new era, the way you
claim? Or is it all a front-office dress-up, staged by public relations
flacks, while what you really hope is that the attention you're getting
now will go away, and everything will slip back the way it was before,
when you did pretty much what you liked? Are you people really tuned in
to what's happening about environment, safety, and all those other
things, or are you kidding yourselves a
nd us? Quo Vadis?-do y
ou remember
your Latin, Mr. Trenton
'Ifes," Adam said, "I remember
.”

Quo Vadis? Whither goest thou? . . .
The age-old question of mankind, echoing down through history, asked of
civilizations, nations, individuals, groups and, now, an industry.
Elroy Braithwaite inquired, "Say, Monica, is that a question or a
speech
.”

"It's a m6lange question
.”

The Newsweek girl gave the Silver Fox an
un
-
warmed smile. "If it's
too complicated for you, I could break it into simple segments, using
shorter words
.”

The public relations chief had just returned after escorting AR "Jake,"
the Product Development vice-president told his colleague, "somehow these
press meetings aren't what they used to be
.”

"If you mean we're more aggressive, not deferential
anymore
," The Wall
Street Journal said, "it's because reporters are being trained that way,
and our editors tell us to bore in hard. Like everything else, I guess
there's a new look in journalism
.”

He added thoughtfully, "Sometimes it
makes me uncomfortable, too
.”

'Well, it doesn't me," Newsweek said, "and I still have a question
hanging
.”

She turned to Adam. "I asked it of you
.”

Adam hesitated. Quo Vadis? In other forms, he sometimes put the same
interrogation to himself. But irt answering now, how far should open
honesty extend?
Elroy Braithwaite relieved him of decision.
"If Adam doesn't mind," the Silver Fox interposed, "I believe I'll answer
that. Without accepting all your premises, Monica, this company-as it
represents our industry-has always accepted community responsibility;
what's more, it does have a social conscience and has demonstrated this
for many years, As to consumerism, we've always believed in it, long
before the word itself was coined by those who . .
.”

The rounded phrases rolled eloquently on. Listening, Adam was relieved he
hadn't answered. Despite his own dedication to his work, he would have
been compelled, in honesty, to admit some doubts.
He was relieved, though, that the session was almost done. He itched to
get back to his own bailiwick where the Orion-like a loving but demanding
mistress-summoned him.

Chapter F
ive

In the corporation’s Design Sty
ling Center-a mile or so from the staff
buildi
ng where the press session was now con
cluding-the odor of modeling
clay was, as usual, all-perva
ding. Regulars who worked in Design-Sty
ling
claimed that after a while they ceased to notice the smell-a mild but
insistent mix or sulp
hur and
glycerine
, its source the dozens of
security-guarded studios ringing the Design
Styling Ce
nter's circular inner
core. W
ithin the studios, sculptured m
odels of potential new automobiles
were taking shape.
Visitors, though, wrinkled their noses in distaste when the smell first
hit them. Not that many visitors got close to the source. The majority
penetrated only as far as the outer reception lobby, or to one of the
half-dozen off
ices behind it, and even here th
ey were checked in and out
by security guards, never left alone, and issued color-coded badges,
defining-and usually limiting severely
the areas where they could be
escorted.
On occasions, national
security and nuclear secrets ha
d been guarded less
carefully than design details of future model cars.
Even staff designers were not allowed unhampered movement. Those least
senior were restricted to one or two studios, their freedom increasing
only after years of service.
A
n
d
precaution made sense. Designers were
sometimes wooed by other auto companies and, since each studio held
secrets of its own, the fewer an individual entered, the less knowledge
he could take with him if he le
ft. Generally, what a designer w
as told
about activity on new model cars was based on the military principle of
"need to know
.”

However, as designers grew older in the
company's service, and also more "locked in" financially through stock
options and pension plans, security was relaxed and a distinctive badge
-worn like a combat medal-allowed an individual past a majority of doors and
guards. Even then, the system didn't always work because occasionally a
top-flight, senior designer would move to a competitive company with a
financial arrangement so magnanimous as to outweigh everything else. Then,
when he went, years of advance knowledge went with him. Some designers in
the auto industry had worked, in their time, for all major auto companies,
though Ford and General Motors had an unwritten agreement that neither
approached each other's designers
at least, directly-with job offers.
Chrysler was less inhibited.
Only a few individuals -design directors and heads of studios-were allowed
everywhere within the Design-Styling Center. One of these was Brett
DeLosanto. This morning he was strolling unhurriedly through a pleasant,
glass-enclosed courtyard which led to Studio X. This was a studio which,
at the moment, bore somewhat the same relationship to others in the
building as the Sistine Chapel to St. Peter's nave.
A security guard put down his newspaper as Brett approached.
"Good morning, Mr. DeLosanto
.”

The man looked the young designer up and
down, then whistled softly. I shoulda brought dark glasses
.”

Brett DeLosanto laughed. A flamboyant figure at any time with his
long-though carefully styled -hair, deep descending sideburns and
precisely trimmed Vandyke beard, he had added to the effect today by
wearing a pink shirt and mauve tic, with slacks and shoes matching the
tie, the ensemble topped by a white cashmere jacket.
"You like the outfit, eh
.”

The guard considered. He was a grizzled ex
-
Army noncom, more than twice
Brett's age. "Well, sir, you could say it was different
.”

"The only difference between you and me, Al, is that I design my
uniforms
.”

Brett nodded toward the studio door. "Much going on today
.”

"There's the usual people in, Mr. DeLosanto. As to what goes on, they
told me when I came here: Keel) my back to the door, eyes to the front
.”

"But you know the Orion's in there. You must have seen it
.”

"Yes, sir, I've seen it. When the brass came in for the big approval
day, they moved it to the showroom
.”

"What do you think
.”

The guard smiled. "I'll tell you what I think, Mr. DeLosanto. I think
you and the Orion are a lot alike
.”

As Brett entered the studio, and the outer door clicked solidly behind
him, he reflected: If true, it would scarcely be surprising.
A sizable segment of his life and creative talent had gone into the
Orion. There were times, in moments of self-appraisal, when he wondered
if it had been too much. On more hundreds of occasions than he cared to
think about, he had passed through this same studio door, during
frenetic days and long, exhausting nights-times of agony and
ecstasy-while the Orion progressed from embryo idea to finished car.
He had been involved from the beginning.
Even before studio work began, he and others from Design had been
apprised of studies-market research, population growth, economics,
social changes, age groups, needs, fashion trends. A cost target was
set. Then came the early concept of a completely new car. During months
that followed, design criteria were hammered out at meeting after
meeting of product planners, designers,
engineers. After that, and working together, engineers devised a power
package while designers -of whom Brett was one-doodled, then became
specific, so that lines and contours of the car took shape. And while it
happened, hopes advanced, receded; plans went right, went wrong, then right
again; doubts arose, were quelled, arose once more. Within the company,
hundreds were involved, led by a top half-dozen.
Endless design changes occurred, some prompted by logic, others through
intuition only. Later still, testing began. Eventually-too soon, it always
seemed to Brett-management approval for production came and, af ter that,
Manufacturing moved in. Now, with production planning well advanced, in
less than a year, the Orion would undergo the most critical test of all:
public acceptance or rejection. And through all the time so far, while no
individual could ever be responsible for an entire car, Brett DeLosanto,
more than anyone else on the design team, had implanted in the Orion his
own ideas, artistic flair, and effort.
Brett, with Adam Trenton.
It was because of Adam Trenton that Brett was here this morning-far
earlier than his usual time of starting work. The two had planned to go
together to the company proving ground, but a message from Adam, which had
just come in, announced that he would be delayed. Brett, less disciplined
than Adam in his working habits, and preferring to sleep late, was annoyed
at having got up needlessly, then decided on a short solitude with the
Orion, anyway. Now, opening an inner door, he entered the main studio.
In several brightly lighted work areas, design development was in progress
on clay models of Orion derivatives-a sports version to appear three years
from now, a station wagon, and on other variations of the original Orion
design which might, or might not, be used in future years.
The original Orion-the car which would have its public introduction only
a year from now -was at the far end of the studio on soft gray carpeting
under spotlights. The model was finished in bleu c6leste. Brett walked
toward it, a sense of excitement gripping him, which was why he had come
here, knowing that it would.
The car was small, compact, lean, slim-lined. It had what sales planners
were already calling a "tucked under, tubular look," clearly influenced
by missile design, giving a functional appearance, yet with 61an and
style. Several body features were revolutionary. For the first time in
any car, above the belt line there was all-around vision. Auto makers
had talked bubble tops for decades, and experimented with them timidly,
but now the Orion had achieved the same effect, yet without loss of
structural strength. Within the clear glass top, vertical members of
thin, high tensile steel
A and C pillars to designers-had been molded
almost invisibly, crossing to join unobtrusively overhead. The result
was a "greenhouse" (another design idiom for the upper body of any
automobile) far stronger than conventional cars, a reality which a tough
series of crashes and rollovers had already confirmed. The tumblehome
angle at which the body top sloped inward from the vertical-was gentle,
allowing spacious headroom inside. The same spaciousness, surprising in
so small a car, extended below the belt line where design was rakish and
advanced, yet not bizarre, so that the Orion, from every angle, melded
into an eye-pleasing whole.
Beneath the exterior, Brett knew, engineering innovations would match
the outward look. A notable one was electronic fuel injection, replacing
a conventional carburetor-the latter an anachronistic hangover from
primitive engines and overdue for its demise. Controlling the fuel
injection system was one of the many functions of the Orion's on-board,
shoe-box-size computer.
The model in Studio X, however, contained nothing mechanical. It was a
Fiberglas shell only, made from the cast of an original clay sculpture,
though even with close scrutiny it was hard to realize that the car
under the spotlights was not real. The model had been left here for
comparison with other models to come later, as well as for senior
company officers to visit, review, worry over, and renew their faith.
Such faith was important. A gigantic amount of stockholders' money, plus
the careers and reputations of all involved, from the chairman of the
board downward, was riding on the Orion's wheels. Already the board of
directors had sanctioned expenditures of a hundred million dollars for
development and production, with more millions likely to be budgeted
before introduction time.
Brett was reminded that he had once heard Detroit described as "more of
a gambling center than Las Vegas, with higher stakes
.”