Wheels

At a minute to ten, with the fifteeen decision makers seated, the chairman of the board sipped orange juice, then said whimsically, "Unless anyone has a better suggestion, we might as well begin." He glanced at Hub Hewitson. "Who's starting?"

"Elroy."

Eyes turned to the Product Development vice-president.

"Mr. Chairman and gentlemen," the Silver Fox said crisply, "today we are presenting Farstar with a recommendation to proceed. You've all read your agendas, you know the plan, and you've seen the models in clay. In a moment we'll get down to details, but first this thought: Whatever we call this car, it will not be Farstar. That code name was merely chosen because, compared with Orion, this project seemed a long way distant.

But suddenly it isn't distant any more. It's no longer a Farstar; the need is here, or will be in two years' time which in production terms, as we know, is the same thing."

Elroy Braithwaite paused, passing a hand across his silver mane, then went on, "We think this kind of car, which some will call revolutionary, is inevitable anyway. And incidentally" - the Silver Fox motioned to the folder of competitor's drawings on the table in front of Hub Hewitson - "so do our friends on the other side of town. But we also believe that instead of letting Farstar, or something like it, be forced on us the way some of our activities have been in recent years, we can make it happen, now. I, for one, believe that as a company and an industry it's time we took the offensive more strongly once again, and did some way-out pioneering. That, in essence, is what Farstar is about.

Now we'll consider details," Braithwaite nodded to Adam, waiting at the lectern. "Okay, let's go."

"The slides you are now seeing," Adam announced as the screen behind him filled, "show what market research has demonstrated to be a gap in availability, which Farstar will fill, and the market potential of that gap two years from now."

Adam had rehearsed this presentation many times and knew the words by rote. Generally, through the next two hours, he would "follow the book," now open in front of him, though as usual at these meetings there would be interruptions and pointed, penetrating questions.

As the half dozen slides went through, with Adam making brief commentaries, he still had time to think of what Elroy Braithwaite had said moments earlier. The remarks about the company taking a strong offensive had surprised Adam, first because it had not been necessary to make a comment of that kind at all, and also because the Silver Fox had a reputation for caginess and gauging wind directions carefully before committing himself to anything. But perhaps Braithwaite, too, was infected with some of the new thinking and impatience pervading the auto industry as old war horses retired or died and younger men moved up.

Braithwaite's phrase "way-out pioneering" had reminded Adam, too, of similar words used by Sir Perceval Stuyvesant during their own conversation five weeks ago. Since then, Adam and Perce had spoken by telephone several times. Adam's interest had grown in the possibility of accepting the presidency of Sir Perceval's West Coast company, but Perce continued to agree that any kind of decision be delayed until the Orion's launching and today's presentation of Farstar. After today, however, Adam must decide - either to go to San Francisco for more discussions or to decline Perce's offer entirely.

***

Adam had talked with Erica, for the second time, about the proffered West Coast job during their two days in the Bahamas. Erica had been definite. "It has to be your decision absolutely, darling. Oh, of course I'd love to live in San Francisco. Who wouldn't? But I'd rather have you happy in Detroit than unhappy somewhere else, and either way we'll be together."

Her declaration cheered him, but even after that he remained in doubt, and was still uncertain now.

Hub Hewitson's voice cut brusquely across the Farstar presentation.

"Let's stop a minute and talk about something we might as well face up to. This Farstar is the ugliest son-of-a-bitching car I ever saw."

It was typical of Hewitson that, while he might support a program, he liked to bring out possible objections himself for frank discussion.

Around the horseshoe table there were several murmurs of assent.

Adam said smoothly - the point had been anticipated - "We have, of course, been aware of that all along."

He began explaining the philosophy behind the car: a philosophy expressed by Brett DeLosanto during the after-midnight session months earlier when Brett had said, "With Picasso in our nostrils, we've been designing cars like they rolled off a Gainsborough canvas." That had been the night when Adam and Brett had gone together to the teardown room, moving on later to the bull session with Elroy Braithwaite and two young product planners, of whom Castaldy was one. They had emerged with the question and concept: Why not a deliberate, daring attempt to produce a car, ugly by existing standards, yet so suited to needs, environment, and present time - the Age of Utility - that it would become beautiful?

Though there had been adaptations and changes in outlook since, Farstar had retained its basic concept.

Here and now Adam was circumspect about the words he used because a product policy board meeting was no place to wax overly poetic, and notions about Picasso took second place to pragmatism. Nor could he speak of Rowena, though it had been the thought of her which inspired his own thinking that night.

Rowena was still a beautiful memory, and while Adam would never tell Erica about her, he had a conviction that even if he did Erica would understand.

The discussion about the visual look of Farstar ended, though they would return to the subject, Adam knew.

"Where were we?" Hub Hewitson was turning pages of his own agenda.

"Page forty-seven," Braithwaite prompted.

The chairman nodded. "Let's get on."

An hour and a half later, after prolonged and inconclusive discussion, the group vice-president of manufacturing pushed away his papers and leaned forward in his chair. "If someone had come to me with the idea for this car, I'd not only have thrown it out, but I'd have suggested he look for employment elsewhere."

Momentarily, the auditorium was silent. Adam, at the lectern, waited.

The manufacturing head, Nolan Freidheim, was a grizzled auto industry veteran and the dean of vice-presidents at the table. He had a forbidding, craggy face which seldom smiled, and was noted for his bluntness. Like the company president, he was due for retirement soon, except that Freidheim had less than a month of service remaining and his successor, already named, was here today.

While the others waited, the elderly executive filled his pipe and lit it. Everyone present knew that this was the last product policy meeting he would attend. At length he said, "That's what I'd have done, and if I had, we'd have lost a good man and probably a good car too."

He puffed his pipe and put it down. "Maybe that's why my time's come, maybe that's why I'm glad it has. There's a whole lot that's happening nowadays I don't understand; plenty of it I dislike and always will. Lately, though, I've found I don't care as much as I used to. Another thing: Whatever we decide today, while you guys are sweating out Farstar - or whatever name it gets eventually - I'll be fishing off the Florida Keys. If you've time, think of me. You probably won't have."

A ripple of laughter ran around the table.

"I'll leave you with a thought, though," Nolan Freidheim said. "I was against this car to begin with. In a way I still am; parts of it, including the way it looks, offend my notion of what a car should be.

But down in my gut, where plenty of us have made good decisions before now, I've a feeling that it's right, it's good, it's timely, it'll hit the market when it should." The manufacturing chief stood up, his coffee cup in hand to replenish it. "My gut votes 'yes.' I say we should go with Farstar."

The chairman of the board observed, "Thank you, Nolan. I've been feeling that way myself, but you expressed it better than the rest of us."

The president joined in the assent. So did others who had wavered until now. Minutes later a formal decision was recorded: For Farstar, all lights green!

Adam felt a curious emptiness. An objective had been gained. The next decision was his own.

Chapter 30

Since the last week of August, Rollie Knight had lived in terror.

The terror began in the janitor's closet at the assembly plant where Leroy Colfax knifed and killed one of the two vending machine collectors, and where the other collector and the foreman, Parkland, were left wounded and unconscious. It continued during a hasty retreat from the plant by the four conspirators - Big Rufe, Colfax, Daddy-o Lester, and Rollie. They had scaled a high, chain-link fence, helping each other in the darkness, knowing that to leave through any of the plant gates would invite questioning and identification later.

Rollie gashed his hand badly on the fence wire, and Big Rufe fell heavily, limping afterward, but they all made it outside. Then, moving separately and avoiding lighted areas, they met in one of the employee parking lots where Big Rufe had a car. Daddy-o had driven because Big Rufe's ankle was swelling fast, and paining him. They left the parking lot without using lights, only turning them on when reaching the roadway outside.

Looking back at the plant, everything seemed normal and there were no outward signs of an alarm being raised.

"Man, oh man," Daddy-o fretted nervously as he drove. "If I ain't glad to be clear o' that!"