Wheels

"You might even be touched in other ways. When you wish, we can talk salary, bonus, stock position, options."

Adam shook his head. "Not yet, if at all. The thing is, I've never seriously considered leaving the auto business. Cars have been my life.

They still are."

Even now, to Adam, this entire exchange was mere dialectics. Greatly as he respected Perce and strong as their friendship was, for Adam to quit the auto industry voluntarily was inconceivable.

The two were in facing chairs. Perce shifted in his. He had a way of winding and unwinding while seated which made his long, lean figure seem sinuous. Each movement, too, signaled a switch in conversation.

"Ever wonder," Perce said, "what they'll put on your tombstone?"

"I'm not at all sure I'll have one."

Perce waved a hand. "I speak metaphorically, old boy. We'll all get a tombstone, whether in stone or air. It'll have on it what we did with the time we had, what we've left behind us. Ever thought of yours?"

"I suppose so," Adam said. "I guess we all do a little."

Perce put his fingertips together and regarded them. "Several things they could say about you, I suppose. For example: 'He was an auto company vice-president' or even maybe 'president' - that's if your luck holds and you beat out all the other strong contenders. You'd be in good company, of course, even though a lot of company. So many auto presidents and vice-presidents, old boy. Bit like the population of India."

"If you're making a point," Adam said, "why not get to it?"

"A splendid suggestion, old boy."

Sometimes, Adam thought, Perce overdid the studied Anglicisms. They had to be studied because, British baronet or not, Perce had lived in the U.S. for a quarter century and, with the exception of speech, all his tastes and habits were American. But perhaps it showed that everyone had human weaknesses.

Now Perce leaned forward, eying Adam earnestly. "You know what that tombstone of yours might say: 'He did something new, different, worthwhile. He was a leader when they carved new pathways, broke fresh ground. That which he left behind him was important and enduring."'

Perce fell back in his chair as if the amount of talk - unusual in his case - and emotional effort had exhausted him.

Amid the silence which followed, Adam felt more moved than at any other point since the conversation began. In his mind he acknowledged the truth of what Perce had said, and wondered, too, how long the Orion would be remembered after its time and usefulness were ended. Farstar also. Both seemed important now, dominating the lives of many, including his own. But how important would they seem in time to come?

The office suite was quiet. It was late afternoon, and here as elsewhere within the staff building, pressures of the day were easing, secretaries and others beginning to go home. From where Adam sat, glancing outside he could see the freeway traffic, its volume growing as the exodus from plants and offices began.

He had chosen this time of day because Perce had asked particularly that they have at least an hour in which they would be undisturbed.

"Tell me some more," Adam said, "about super-conductors - the breakthrough you were speaking of."

Perce said quietly, "They represent the means to enormous new energy, a chance to clean up our environment, and to create more abundance than this earth has ever known."

Across the office, on Adam's desk, a telephone buzzed peremptorily.

Adam glanced toward it with annoyance. Before Perce's arrival he had given Ursula, his secretary, instructions not to disturb them. Perce seemed unhappy about the interruption, too.

But Ursula, Adam knew, would not disregard instructions without good reason. Excusing himself, he crossed the room, sat at his desk and lifted the phone.

"I wouldn't have called you," his secretary's low-pitched voice announced,

"except Mr. Stephensen said he has to speak to you, it's extremely urgent"

"Smokey Stephensen?"

"Yes, sir."

Adam said irritably, "Get a number where he'll be later this evening. If I can, I'll call him. But I can't talk now."

He sensed Ursula's uncertainty. "Mr. Trenton, that's exactly what I said.

But he's most insistent. He says when you know what it's about, you won't mind him interrupting."

"Damn!" Adam glanced apologetically at Perce, then asked Ursula, "He's on the line now?"

"Yes."

"Very well, put him on."

Cupping a hand over the telephone, Adam promised, "This will take one minute, no more." The trouble with people like Smokey Stephensen, he thought, was that they always considered their own affairs to have overriding importance.

A click. The auto dealer's voice. "Adam, that you?"

"Yes, it is." Adam made no attempt to conceal his displeasure. "I understand my secretary has already told you I'm busy. Whatever it is will have to wait."

"Shall I tell that to your wife?"

He answered peevishly, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, Mr. Big Executive too busy to take a phone call from a friend, your wife has been arrested. And not on a traffic charge, in case you're wondering. For stealing."

Adam stopped, in shocked silence, as Smokey went on. "If you want to help her, and help yourself, right now get free from whatever you're involved in and come to where I'm waiting. Listen carefully. I'll tell you where to go."

Dazedly, Adam wrote down the directions Smokey gave him.

"We need a lawyer," Adam said. "I know several. I'm going to phone one, get him over here."

He was with Smokey Stephensen, in Smokey's car, on the parking lot of the suburban police station. Adam had not yet been inside, Smokey had persuaded him to remain in the car while he recited the facts concerning Erica, which he had learned on the telephone from Chief Arenson, and during a visit to the chief's office before Adam's arrival. As Adam listened he had grown increasingly tense, his frown of worry deepening.

"Sure, sure," Smokey said. "Go phone a lawyer. While you're about it, why not call the News, Free Press and Birmingham Eccentric? They might even send photographers."

"What does it matter? Obviously, the police have made a stupid mistake."

"They ain't made a mistake."

"My wife would never . . ."

Smokey cut in exasperatedly, "Your wife did. Will you get that through your head? And not only did, she's signed a confession."

"I can't believe it."

"You'd better. Chief Arenson told me; he wouldn't lie. Besides, the police aren't fools."

"No," Adam said, I know they're not." He took in a deep breath and expelled it slowly, forcing himself to think carefully - for the first time since hastily breaking off the meeting with Perceval Stuyvesant half an hour ago. Perce had been understanding, realizing that something serious had occurred, even though Adam hadn't gone into detail about the sudden phone call. They had arranged that Adam would call Perce at his hotel, either later tonight or tomorrow morning.

Now, beside Adam, Smokey Stephensen waited, puffing on a cigar, so the car reeked of smoke despite its air conditioning. Outside, the rain continued drearily, as it had since afternoon. Dusk was settling in. On vehicles and in buildings lights were coming on.

"All right," Adam said, "if Erica did what they say, there has to be something else behind it."

Out of habit, the auto dealer rubbed a hand over his beard. His greeting to Adam on arrival had been neither friendly nor hostile, and his voice was noncommittal now. "Whatever that is, I guess it's between you and your wife. The same goes for what's right or wrong; neither one's any business of mine. What we're talking about is the way things are."

A police cruiser pulled in close to where they were parked. Two uniformed officers got out, escorting a third man between them. The policemen took a hard look at Smokey Stephensen's car and its two occupants; the third man, whom Adam now saw was handcuffed, kept his eyes averted. While Smokey and Adam watched, the trio went inside.

It was an uncomfortable reminder of the kind of business transacted here.

"The way things are," Adam said, "Erica's inside there - or so you tell me - and needs help. I can either barge in myself, start throwing weight around and maybe make mistakes, or I can do the sensible thing and get a lawyer."

"Sensible or not," Smokey growled, "you'll likely start something you can't stop, and afterwards wish you'd done it some other way."

"What other way?"

"Like letting me go in there to begin. To represent you. Like my talking to the chief again. Like seeing what I can work out."

Wondering why he had not asked before, Adam queried, "Why did the police call you?"

"The chief knows me," Smokey said. "We're friends. He knows I know you."

He forbore to tell Adam what he had already learned - that chances were good the store where the shoplifting had occurred would settle for payment of what had been taken and would not press charges; also, that Chief Arenson was aware the case might be sensitive locally, and therefore a favorable disposition might be arranged, depending on the co-operation and discretion of all concerned.

"I'm out of my depth," Adam said. "If you think you can do something, go ahead. Do you want me to come with you?"