Wheels

by Arthur Hailey

  Adam controlled his irritation. Sometimes auto criticism became a fetish, an unreasoning cult, and not just with professionals like Vale. “They helped,” he admitted, “by establishing directions and goals, particularly about safety and pollution. But they had nothing to do with the technological revolution, which was coming anyway. It’s that that’s going to make the next ten years more exciting for everybody in this business than the entire half century just gone.”

  “Just how?” AP said, glancing at his watch.

  “Someone mentioned breakthroughs,” Adam answered. “The most important ones, which we can see coming, are in materials which will let us design a whole new breed of vehicles by the mid- or late ’70s. Take metals. Instead of solid steel which we’re using now, honeycomb steel is coming; it’ll be strong, rigid, yet incredibly lighter—meaning fuel economy; also it’ll absorb an impact better than conventional steel—a safety plus. Then there are new metal alloys for engines and components. We anticipate one which will allow temperature changes from a hundred degrees to more than two thousand degrees Fahrenheit, in seconds, with minor expansion only. Using that, we can incinerate the remainder of unburned fuel causing air pollution. Another metal being worked on is one with a retention technique to ‘remember’ its original shape. If you crumple a fender or a door, you’ll apply heat or pressure and the metal will spring back the way it was before. Another alloy we expect will allow cheap production of reliable, high-quality wheels for gas turbine engines.”

  Elroy Braithwaite added, “That last is one to watch. If the internal combustion engine goes eventually, the gas turbine’s most likely to move in. There are plenty of problems with a turbine for cars—it’s efficient only at high power output, and you need a costly heat exchanger if you aim not to burn pedestrians. But they’re solvable problems, and being worked on.”

  “Okay,” The Wall Street Journal said. “So that’s metals. What else is new?”

  “Something significant, and coming soon for every car, is an onboard computer.” Adam glanced at AP. “It will be small, about the size of a glove compartment.”

  “A computer to do what?”

  “Just about anything; you name it. It will monitor engine components—plugs, fuel injection, all the others. It will control emissions and warn if the engine is polluting. And in other ways it will be revolutionary.”

  “Name some,” Newsweek said.

  “Part of the time the computer will think for drivers and correct mistakes, often before they realize they’re made. One thing it will mastermind is sensory braking—brakes applied individually on every wheel so a driver can never lose control by skidding. A radar auxiliary will warn if a car ahead is slowing or you’re following too close. In an emergency the computer could decelerate and apply brakes automatically, and because a computer’s reactions are faster than human there should be a lot less rear-end collisions. There’ll be the means to lock on to automatic radar control lanes on freeways, which are on the way, with space satellite control of traffic flow not far behind.”

  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 magnetic 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 slipped 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 had 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 how 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 and us? Quo Vadis?—do you remember your Latin, Mr. Trenton?”

  “Yes,” 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 melangé question.” The Newsweek girl gave the Silver Fox an unwarmed 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 AP. “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 any more,” 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 in 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 alw
ays 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.

  5

  In the corporate Design-Styling Center—a mile or so from the staff building where the press session was now concluding—the odor of modeling clay was, as usual, all-pervading. Regulars who worked in Design-Styling claimed that after a while they ceased to notice the smell—a mild but insistent mix of sulphur and glycerin, its source the dozens of security-guarded studios ringing the Design-Styling Center’s circular inner core. Within the studios, sculptured models 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 a half-dozen offices behind it, and even here they 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 had 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. The 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 left. Generally, what a designer was 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 tie, 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: Keep 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, after 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 céleste. 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 élan 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.” The earthy thought drew his mind to practicalities, of which one was the fact that he had not yet had breakfast.