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 always 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.
Chapter 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 or sulfur 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 the 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 has 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 tic, 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 exArmy 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 celeste. 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 elegance 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.