Wheels

"Maybe a little." Adam smiled. "Some of us think it's time our lawmakers did a few positive things instead of just parroting the critics."

"Positive like what?"

"Like enacting some public enforcement laws. Take one example: air pollution. Okay, antipollution standards for new-built cars are here.

Most of us in the industry agree they're good, are necessary, and were overdue." Adam was aware of the size of the group around them increasing, other conversations breaking off. He went on, "But what people like you ask of people like us is to produce an anti-pollutant device which won't go wrong, or need checking or adjustment, for the entire life of every car. Well, it can't be done. It's no more logical to expect it than to ask any piece of machinery to work perfectly forever. So what's needed? A law with teeth, a law requiring regular inspection of car pollutant devices, then repair or replacement when necessary. But it would be an unpopular law because the public doesn't really give two hoots about pollution and only cares about convenience.

That's why politicians are afraid of it."

"The public does care," the congressman said heatedly. "I've mail to prove it."

"Some individuals care. The public doesn't. For more than two years," Adam insisted, "we've had pollution control kits available for older cars. The kits cost twenty dollars installed, and we know they work.

They reduce pollution and make air purer - anywhere. The kits have been promoted, advertised on TV, radio, billboards, but almost nobody buys them. Extras on cars - even old cars - like whitewall tires or stereo tape decks are selling fine. But nobody wants antipollution kits; they're the least selling item we ever made. And the legislators you asked me about, who lecture us about clean air at the drop of a vote, haven't shown the slightest interest either."

Stella's voice and several others chorused, "Spare ribs! Spare ribs!"

The group around Adam and the congressman thinned. "About time," somebody said. "We haven't eaten for an hour."

The sight of piled food, now on a buffet at the rear of the sun deck presided over by a whitecapped chef, reminded Adam that he had not had breakfast, due to his fight with Erica, and was hungry. He also remembered he must call home soon.

One of the purchasing agent guests, holding a plate heaped high with food, called out, "Great eating, Hank!"

"Glad you like it," his host acknowledged. "And with you guys here it's all deductible."

Adam smiled with the others, knowing that what Kreisel had said was true - that the purchasing agents' presence made this a business occasion, to be deducted eventually on Hank Kreisel's income tax return.

The reasoning: auto company purchasing agents, who allocated millions of dollars' worth of orders annually, held a life or death authority over parts manufacturers like Kreisel. In older days, because of this, purchasing agents were accustomed to receive munificent gifts even a lake cruiser or a houseful of furniture from suppliers whom they favored. Now, auto companies forbade that kind of graft and an offender, if caught, was fired summarily. Just the same, perks for purchasing agents still existed, and being entertained socially, on occasions like this or privately, was one. Another was having personal hotel bills picked up by suppliers or their salesmen; this was considered safe since neither goods nor money changed hands directly, and later, if necessary, a purchasing agent could deny knowledge, saying he had expected the hotel to bill him. And gifts at Christmas time remained one more.

The Christmas handouts were forbidden annually by auto company managements in memos circulated during November and December. But just as inevitably, purchasing department secretaries prepared lists of purchasing staff home addresses which were handed out to suppliers' salesmen on request, a request considered as routine as saying, "Merry Christmas!" The secretaries' home addresses were always on the lists and, though purchasing agents allegedly knew nothing of what was going on, somehow their addresses got there, too. The gifts which resulted - none delivered to the office - were not as lavish as in older days, but few suppliers risked failing to bestow them.

Adam was still watching the purchasing agent with the piled plate when a soft, feminine voice murmured, "Adam Trenton, do you always say just what you're thinking?"

He turned. In front of him, regarding him amusedly, was a girl of twenty-eight or thirty, Adam guessed. Her high-cheekboned face was up-tilted, her moist full lips lightly parted in a smile. Intelligent bright eyes met his own directly. He sensed a musky perfume, was aware of a lithe, slender figure with small, firm breasts beneath a tailored powder-blue linen dress. She was, Adam thought, one of the most breathtakingly beautiful women he had ever seen. And she was black. Not brown, but black; a deep, rich black, her smooth unblemished skin like silken ebony. He curbed an impulse to reach out, touching her.

"My name is Rowena," the girl said. "I was told yours. And I've been asked to see that you get something to eat."

"Rowena what?"

He sensed her hesitate. "Does it matter?" She smiled, so that he was aware of the full redness and moisture of her lips again.

"Besides," Rowena said, "I asked you a question first. You haven't answered it."

Adam remembered she had asked something about - did he always say what he was thinking?

"Not always. I don't believe any of us do really." He thought: am sure as hell not doing it now, then added aloud, "When I do say anything, though, I try to make it honest and what I mean."

"I know. I was listening to you talking. Not enough of us do that."

The girl's eyes met his own and held them steadily. He wondered if she sensed her impact on him, and suspected that she did.

The chef at the buffet, with Rowena's aid, filled two plates which they carried to one of the sun deck tables nearby. Already seated were the judge - a youngish Negro who was on the federal bench in Michigan - and another guest from Adam's company, a middle-aged development engineer named Frazon. Moments later they were joined by Brett DeLosanto, accompanied by an attractive, quiet brunette whom he introduced as Elsie.

"We figured this is where the action is," Brett said. "Don't disappoint us."

Rowena asked, "What kind do you have in mind?"

"You know us auto people. We've only two interests - business and sex."

The judge smiled. "It's early. Perhaps we should take business first." He addressed Adam. "A while ago you were talking about company annual meetings. I liked what you said - that people, even with a single share, should be listened to."

Frazon, the engineer, as if rising to a bait, put down his knife and fork. "Well, I didn't. I don't agree with Adam, and there are plenty more who feel the way I do."

"I know," the judge said. "I saw you react. Won't you tell us why?"

Frazon considered, frowning. "All right. What the loudmouth one-share people want, including consumer groups and the so-called corporate responsibility committee, is to create disruption, and they do it by distortion, lies, and insult. Remember the General Motors annual meeting, when the Nader gang called everybody in the industry 'corporate criminals,' then talked about our 'disregard for law and justice,' and said we were part of 'a corporate crime wave dwarfing street crime by comparison'? How are we supposed to feel when we hear that? Grateful?

How are we supposed to take clowns who mouth that kind of claptrap?

Seriously?"

"Say!" Brett DeLosanto interjected. "You engineering guys were listening. We thought the only thing you ever heard was motor noises."

"They heard, all right," Adam said. "We all heard - those in General Motors, the other companies too. But what a lot of industry people missed was that the very words just quoted" - he motioned toward Frazon - "were intended to anger and inflame and prevent a reasonable response. The protesting crowd didn't want the auto industry to be reasonable; if it had, we'd have cut the ground from under them. And what they planned, worked. Our people fell for it."

The judge prompted, "Then you see invective as a tactic."

"Of course. It's the language of our times, and the kids who use it - bright young lawyers mostly - know exactly what it does to old men in board rooms. It curls their hair, raises their blood pressure, makes them rigid and unyielding. The chairmen and directors in our industry were reared on politeness; in their heyday, even when you knifed a competitor, you said 'excuse me.' But not any more. Now the dialogue is harsh and snarly, and points are scored by overstatement, so if you're listening - and smart - you underreact and keep cool. Most of our top people haven't learned that yet."

"I haven't learned it, and don't intend to," Frazon said. "I'll stick with decent manners."

Brett quipped, "There speaks an engineer, the ultimate conservative!"

"Adam's an engineer," Frazon pointed out. "Trouble is, he's spent too much time around designers."

The group at the table laughed.

Looking at Adam, Frazon said, "Surely you're not suggesting we should go along with what the militants at annual meetings want - consumer reps on boards of directors, all the rest?"

Adam answered quietly, "Why not? It could show we're willing to be flexible, and might be worth a try. Put somebody on a board - or on a jury - they're apt to take it seriously, not be just a maverick. We might even end up learning something. Besides, it will happen eventually and we'd be better off if we made it happen now instead of being forced into it later."