Wheels

Adam said, "I like your place, Hank."

"Thanks. Not bad, I guess. Didn't build it, though. Bought it from the guy who did. He poured in too much dough, then needed cash." Kreisel gave a twisted grin. "Don't we all?"

They stopped at a door, one of several opening onto the walkway. The parts manufacturer strode in, preceding Adam. Directly inside was a bedroom in which polished woodwork gleamed. In a fireplace, facing a double bed, a log fire was laid.

"Be glad of that. Can get cold at night," Kreisel said. He crossed to a window. "Gave you a room with a view."

"You sure did." Standing beside his host Adam could see the bright clear waters of the lake, superbly blue, shading to green near the sandy shoreline. The Higgins Lake location was in rolling hills - the last few miles of journey had been a steady climb - and around cottage and lake were magnificent stands of jack pines, spruce, balsam, tamarack, yellow pine, and birch. Judging by the panoramic view, Adam guessed he was being given the best bedroom. He wondered why. He was also curious about the other guests.

"When you're ready," Hank Kreisel announced, "bar's open. So's the kitchen. Don't have meals here. Just drinks and food twenty-four hours.

Anything else can be arranged." He gave the twisted grin once more as he opened a door on the opposite side of the room from where they had entered. "There's two doors in 'n out - this and the other. Both lock. Makes for private coming and going."

"Thanks. If I need to, I'll remember."

When the other had gone, Adam unpacked the few things he had brought and, soon after, followed his host through the second door. It opened, he discovered, onto a narrow gallery above a central living area designed and furnished in hunting lodge style. The gallery extended around the living room and connected with a series of stone slab steps which, in turn, formed part of an immense rock fireplace. Adam descended the steps. The living area was unoccupied and he headed for a buzz of voices outside.

He emerged onto a spacious sun deck high above the lake. People, in a group, had been talking; now, one voice raised above others argued heatedly, "So help me, you people in this industry are acting more and more like nervous Nellies. You've gotten too damn sensitive to criticism and too defensive. You're encouraging the exhibitionists, making like they're big time sages instead of publicity hounds who want their names in papers and on television. Look at your annual meetings! Nowadays they're circuses. Some nut buys one share of company stock, then tells off the chairman of the board who stands there and takes it. It's like letting a single voter, any voter, go to Washington and sound off on the Senate floor."

"No, it isn't," Adam said. Without raising his voice he let it penetrate the conversation. "A voter doesn't have any right on the Senate floor, but a shareholder has rights at an annual meeting, even with one share.

That's what our system's all about. And the critics aren't all cranks.

If we start thinking so, and stop listening, we'll be back where we were five years ago."

"Hey!" Brett DeLosanto shouted. "Listen to those entrance lines, and look who got here!" Brett was wearing an exotic outfit in magenta and yellow, clearly self-designed, and resembling a Roman toga. Curiously, it managed to be dashing and practical. Adam, in slacks and turtleneck, felt conservative by contrast.

Several others who knew Adam greeted him, including Pete O'Hagan, the man who had been speaking when he came in. O'Hagan represented one of the major national magazines in Detroit, his job to court auto industry brass socially - a subtle but effective way of soliciting advertising.

Most big magazines had similar representation, their people sometimes becoming cronies of company presidents or others at high level. Such friendships became known to advertising agencies who rarely challenged them; thus, when advertising had to be cut, the publications with top bracket influence were last to be hurt. Typically, despite Adam's blunt contradiction of what had been said, O'Hagan showed no resentment, only smiles.

"Come, meet everybody," Hank Kreisel said. He steered Adam around the group. Among the guests were a congressman, a judge, a network TV personality, two other parts manufacturers and several senior people from Adam's own company, including a trio of purchasing agents. There was also a young man who offered his hand and smiled engagingly as Adam approached. "Smokey told me about you, sir. I'm Pierre Flodenhale."

"Of course." Adam remembered the youthful race driver whom he had seen, doubling as a car salesman, at Smokey Stephensen's dealership. "How are your sales?"

"When there's time to work at it, pretty good, sir."

Adam told him, "Cut the 'sir' stuff. Only first names here. You had bad luck in the Daytona 500."

"Sure did." Pierre Flodenhale pushed back his shock of blond hair and grimaced. Two months earlier he had completed a hundred and eighty grueling laps at Daytona, was leading with only twenty laps to go, when a blown engine head put him out of the race. "Felt like stomping on that old car after," he confided.

"If it had been me, I'd have pushed it off a cliff ."

"Guess maybe I'll do better soon." The race driver gave a boyish smile; he had the same pleasant manner as when Adam had observed him previously. "Got a feeling this year I might pull off the Talladega 500."

"I'll be at Talladega," Adam said. "We're exhibiting a concept Orion there. So I'll cheer for you."

From somewhere behind, Hank Kreisel's voice cut in. "Adam, this is Stella. She'll do anything for you."

"Like getting a drink," a girl's pleasing voice said. Adam found a pretty, petite redhead beside him. She was wearing the scantiest of bikinis. "Hullo, Mr. Trenton."

"Hullo." Adam saw two other girls nearby and remembered Erica's question: Does "stag" mean no women or merely no wives?

"I'm glad you like my swimsuit," Stella told Pierre, whose eyes had been exploring.

The race driver said, "Hadn't noticed you were wearing one."

The girl returned to Adam. "About that drink."

He ordered a Bloody Mary. "Don't go 'way," she told him. "Be back soon."

Pierre asked, "What's a 'concept' Orion, Adam?"

"It's a special kind of car made up for showing in advance of the real thing. In the trade we call it a 'one off.'"

"But the one at Talladega - it won't be a genuine Orion?"

"No," Adam said. "The real Orion isn't due until a month later. The

'concept' will resemble the Orion though we're not saying how closely.

We'll show it around a lot. The idea is to get people talking, speculating on how will the final Orion look?" He added, "You could say it's a sort of teaser."

"I can play that," Stella said. She had returned with Adam's drink and one for Pierre.

The congressman moved over to join them. He had flowing white hair, a genial manner and a strong, though pontifical voice. "I was interested in what you said about your industry listening, Mr. Trenton. I trust some of the listening is to what legislators are saying."

Adam hesitated. His inclination was to answer bluntly, as usual, but this was a party; he was a guest. He caught the eye of Hank Kreisel who seemed to have a knack of being everywhere and overhearing anything that mattered. "Feel free," Kreisel said. "A few fights won't hurt. We got a doctor coming."

Adam told the congressman, "What's coming out of legislatures right now is mostly foolishness from people who want their names in the news and know that blasting the auto industry, whether it makes sense or not, will do the trick."

The congressman rushed as Adam persisted, "A U.S. senator wants to ban automobiles in five years' time if they have internal combustion engines, though he hasn't any notion what will replace them. Well, if it happened, the only good thing is, he couldn't get around to make silly speeches. Some states have brought lawsuits in efforts to make us recall all cars built since 1953 and rebuild them to emission standards that didn't exist until 1966 in California, 1968 elsewhere."

"Those are extremes," the congressman protested. His speech slurred slightly, and the drink in his hand was clearly not his first of the day.

"I agree they're extremes. But they're representative of what we're hearing from legislators, and that - if I remember - was your question."

Hank Kreisel, reappearing, said cheerfully, "Was the question, all right." He slapped the congressman across the shoulders. "Watch out, Woody! These young fellas in Detroit got sharp minds. Brighter'n you're used to in Washington."

"You'd never think," the congressman informed the group, "that when this character Kreisel and I were Marines together, he used to salute me"

"If that's what you're missing, General"

Hank Kreisel, still in his smart Bermuda shorts, snapped to rigid attention and executed a parade ground-style salute. Afterward he commanded, "Stella, get the senator another drink."

"I wasn't a general," the congressman complained. "I was a chicken colonel, and I'm not a senator."

"You were never a chicken, Woody," Kreisel assured him. "And you'll make it to senator. Probably over this industry's corpse."

"Judging by you, and this place, it's a damn healthy corpse." The congressman returned his gaze to Adam. "Want to beat any more bell out of politicians?"