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  Adam was aware that Erica still resented the amount of time and energy which his job demanded, but she had been an automotive wife for five years now, and ought to have come to terms with that, just as other wives learned to.

  Occasionally, he wondered if it had been a mistake to marry someone so much younger than himself, though intellectually they had never had the slightest problem. Erica had brains and intelligence far beyond her years, and—as Adam had seen—was seldom en rapport with younger men.

  The more he thought about it, the more he realized they would have to find some resolution to their problems soon.

  But at the fifteenth floor, as he entered high command territory, Adam thrust personal thoughts away.

  In the office suite of the Product Development vice-president, Jake Earlham, Vice-President Public Relations, was performing introductions. Earlham, bald and stubby, had been a newspaperman many years ago and now looked like a donnish Mr. Pickwick. He was always either smoking a pipe or gesturing with it. He waved the pipe now to acknowledge Adam Trenton’s entry.

  “I believe you know Monica from Newsweek.”

  “We’ve met.” Adam acknowledged a petite brunette, already seated on a sofa. With shapely ankles crossed, smoke rising lazily from a cigarette, she smiled back coolly, making it plain that a representative of New York would not be taken in by Detroit charm, no matter how artfully applied.

  Beside Newsweek, on the sofa, was The Wall Street Journal, a florid, middle-aged reporter named Harris. Adam shook his hand, then that of AP, a taut young man with a sheaf of copy paper, who acknowledged Adam curtly, plainly wanting the session to get on. Bob Irvin, bald and easygoing, of the Detroit News, was last.

  “Hi, Bob,” Adam said. Irvin, whom Adam knew best, wrote a daily column about automotive affairs. He was well-informed and respected in the industry, though no sycophant, being quick to jab a needle when he felt occasion warranted. In the past, Irvin had given a good deal of sympathetic coverage to both Ralph Nader and Emerson Vale.

  Elroy Braithwaite, the Product Development vice-president, dropped into a vacant armchair in the comfortable lounge area where they had assembled. He asked amiably, “Who’ll begin?”

  Braithwaite, known among intimates as “The Silver Fox” because of his mane of meticulously groomed gray hair, wore a tightly cut Edwardian mode suit and sported another personal trademark—enormous cuff links. He exuded a style matching his surroundings. Like all offices for vice-presidents and above, this one had been exclusively designed and furnished; it had African avodire wood paneling, brocaded drapes, and deep broadloom underfoot. Any man who attained this eminence in an auto company worked long and fiercely to get here. But once arrived, the working conditions held pleasant perquisites including an office like this, with adjoining dressing room and sleeping quarters, plus—on the floor above—a personal dining room, as well as a steam bath and masseur, available at any time.

  “Perhaps the lady should lead off.” It was Jake Earlham, perched on a window seat behind them.

  “All right,” the Newsweek brunette said. “What’s the latest weak alibi for not launching a meaningful program to develop a nonpollutant steam engine for cars?”

  “We’re fresh out of alibis,” the Silver Fox said. Braithwaite’s expression had not changed; only his voice was a shade sharper. “Besides, the job’s already been done—by a guy named George Stephenson—and we don’t think there’s been a lot of significant progress since.”

  The AP man had put on thin-rimmed glasses; he looked through them impatiently. “Okay, so we’ve got the comedy over. Can we have some straight questions and answers now?”

  “I think we should,” Jake Earlham said. The p.r. head added apologetically, “I should have remembered. The wire services have an early deadline for the East Coast afternoon papers.”

  “Thank you,” AP said. He addressed Elroy Braithwaite. “Mr. Vale made a statement last night that the auto companies are guilty of conspiracy and some other things because they haven’t made serious efforts to develop an alternative to the internal combustion engine. He also says that steam and electric engines are available now. Would you care to comment on that?”

  The Silver Fox nodded. “What Mr. Vale said about the engines being available now is true. There are various kinds; most of them work, and we have several ourselves in our test center. What Vale didn’t say—either because it would spoil his argument or he doesn’t know—is that there still isn’t a hope in hell of making a steam or electric engine for cars, at low cost, low weight, and good convenience, in the foreseeable future.”

  “How long’s that?”

  “Through the 1970s. By the 1980s there’ll be other new developments, though the internal combustion engine—an almost totally non-polluting one—still may dominate.”

  The Wall Street Journal interjected, “But there’ve been a lot of news stories about all kinds of engines here and now …”

  “You’re damn right,” Elroy Braithwaite said, “and most of ’em should be in the comics section. If you’ll excuse my saying so, newspaper writers are about the most gullible people afloat. Maybe they want to be; I guess, that way, the stories they write are more interesting. But let some inventor—never mind if he’s a genius or a kook—come up with a one-only job, and turn the press loose on him. What happens? Next day all the news stories say this ‘may’ be the big break-through, this ‘may’ be the way the future’s going. Repeat that a few times so the public reads it often, and everybody thinks it must be true, just the way newspaper people, I suppose, believe their own copy if they write enough of it. It’s that kind of hoopla that’s made a good many in this country convinced they’ll have a steam or electric car, or maybe a hybrid, soon in their own garages.”

  The Silver Fox smiled at his public relations colleague, who had shifted uneasily and was fidgeting with his pipe. “Relax, Jake. I’m not taking off at the press. Just trying to fix a perspective.”

  Jake Earlham said dryly, “I’m glad you told me. For a minute I was wondering.”

  “Aren’t you losing sight of some facts, Mr. Braithwaite?” AP persisted. “There are reputable people who still believe in steam power. Some big outfits other than auto companies are working on it. The California government is putting money on the line to get a fleet of steam cars on the road. And there are legislative proposals out there to ban internal combustion engines five years from now.”

  The Product Development vice-president shook his head decisively, his silver mane bobbing. “In my book, the only reputable guy who believed in a steam car was Bill Lear. Then he gave up publicly, calling the idea ‘utterly ridiculous.’”

  “But he’s since changed his mind,” AP said.

  “Sure, sure. And carries around a hatbox, saying his new steam engine is inside. Well, we know what’s inside; it’s the engine’s innermost core, which is like taking a spark plug and saying ‘there’s an engine from our present cars.’ What’s seldom mentioned, by Mr. Lear and others, is that to be added are combusters, boiler, condenser, recuperation fans … a long list of heavy, expensive, bulky hardware, with dubious efficiency.”

  Jake Earlham prompted, “The California government’s steam cars …”

  The Silver Fox nodded. “Okay, California. Sure the state’s spending lots of money; what government doesn’t? If you and half a million others were willing to pay a thousand dollars more for your cars, maybe-just maybe—we could build a steam engine, with all its problems and disadvantages. But most of our customers—and our competitors’ customers, which we have to think about too—don’t have that kind of moss to sling around.”

  “You’re still ducking electric cars,” The Wall Street Journal pointed out.

  Braithwaite nodded to Adam. “You take that one.”

  “There are electric cars right now,” Adam told the reporters. “You’ve seen golf carts, and it’s conceivable that a two-passenger vehicle can be developed soon for shopping or similar use within a small local area
. At the moment, though, it would be expensive and not much more than a curiosity. We’ve also built, ourselves, experimental trucks and cars which are electric powered. The trouble is, as soon as we give them any useful range we have to fill most of the inside space with heavy batteries, which doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “The small, lightweight battery—zinc-air or fuel cells,” AP questioned. “When is it coming?”

  “You forgot sodium sulphur,” Adam said. “That’s another that’s been talked up. Unfortunately, there’s little more than talk so far.”

  Elroy Braithwaite put in, “Eventually we believe there will be a breakthrough in batteries, with a lot of energy stored in small packages. What’s more, there’s a big potential use for electric vehicles in downtown traffic. But based on everything we know, we can’t see it happening until the 1980s.”

  “And if you’re thinking about air pollution in conjunction with electric cars,” Adam added, “there’s one factor which a lot of people overlook. Whatever kind of batteries you had, they’d need recharging. So with hundreds of thousands of cars plugged into power sources, there’d be a requirement for many more generating stations, each spewing out its own air pollution. Since electric power plants are usually built in the suburbs, what could happen is that you’d end up taking the smog from the cities and transferring it out there.”

  “Isn’t all that still a pretty weak alibi?” The cool Newsweek brunette uncrossed her legs, then twitched her skirt downward, to no effect, as she undoubtedly knew; it continued to ride high on shapely thighs. One by one, the men dropped their eyes to where the thighs and skirt joined.

  She elaborated, “I mean an alibi for not having a crash program to make a good, cheap engine—steam or electric, or both. That’s how we got to the moon, isn’t it?” She added pertly, “If you’ll remember, that was my first question.”

  “I remember,” Elroy Braithwaite said. Unlike the other men, he did not remove his gaze from the junction of skirt and thighs, but held it there deliberately. There were several seconds of silence in which most women would have fidgeted or been intimidated. The brunette, self-assured, entirely in control, made clear that she was not. Still not looking up, the Silver Fox said slowly, “What was the question again, Monica?”

  “I think you know.” Only then did Braithwaite, outmaneuvered, lift his head.

  He sighed. “Oh, yes—the moon. You know, there are days I wish we’d never got there. It’s produced a new cliché. Nowadays, the moment there’s any kind of engineering hangup, anywhere, you can count on somebody saying: We got to the moon, didn’t we? Why can’t we solve this?”

  “If she hadn’t asked,” The Wall Street Journal said, “I would. So why can’t we?”

  “I’ll tell you,” the vice-president snapped. “Quite apart from the space gang having unlimited public money—which we haven’t—they had an objective: Get to the moon. You people are asking us, on the vague basis of things you’ve read or heard, to give development of a steam or electric engine for cars that kind of all-or-nothing, billions-in-the-kitty priority. Well, it so happens that some of the best engineering brains in this business think it isn’t a practical objective, or even a worthwhile one. We have better ideas and other objectives.”

  Braithwaite passed a hand over his silver mane, then nodded to Adam. He gave the impression of having had enough.

  “What we believe,” Adam said, “is that clean air—at least air not polluted by motor vehicles—can be achieved best, fastest, and most cheaply through refinements of the present gasoline internal combustion engine, along with more improvements in emission control and fuels.” He had deliberately kept his voice low key. Now he added, “Maybe that’s not as spectacular as the idea of steam or electric power but there’s a lot of sound science behind it.”

  Bob Irvin of the Detroit News spoke for the first time. “Quite apart from electric and steam engines, you’d admit, wouldn’t you, that before Nader, Emerson Vale, and their kind, the industry wasn’t nearly as concerned as it is now about controlling air pollution?”

  The question was asked with apparent casualness, Irvin looking blandly through his glasses, but Adam knew it was loaded with explosive. He hesitated only momentarily, then answered, “Yes, I would.”

  The three other reporters looked at him, surprised.

  “As I understand it,” Irvin said, still with the same casual manner, “we’re here because of Emerson Vale, or in other words, because of an auto critic. Right?”

  Jake Earlham intervened from his window seat. “We’re here because your editors—and in your case, Bob, you personally—asked if we would respond to some questions today, and we agreed to. It was our understanding that some of the questions would relate to statements which Mr. Vale had made, but we did not schedule a press conference specifically because of Vale.”

  Bob Irvin grinned. “A bit hair-splitty, aren’t you, Jake?”

  The Vice-President Public Relations shrugged. “I guess.”

  From Jake Earlham’s doubtful expression now and earlier, Adam suspected he was wondering if the informal press meeting had been such a good idea.

  “In that case,” Irvin said, “I guess this question wouldn’t be out of order, Adam.” The columnist seemed to ruminate, shambling verbally as he spoke, but those who knew him were aware how deceptive this appearance was. “In your opinion have the auto critics—let’s take Nader and safety—fulfilled a useful function?”

  The question was simple, but framed so it could not be ducked. Adam felt like protesting to Irvin: Why pick me? Then he remembered Elroy Braithwaite’s instructions earlier: “We’ll call things the way we see them.”

  Adam said quietly, “Yes, they have fulfilled a function. In terms of safety, Nader booted this industry, screaming, into the second half of the twentieth century.”

  All four reporters wrote that down.

  While they did, Adam’s thoughts ranged swiftly over what he had said and what came next. Within the auto industry, he was well aware, plenty of others would agree with him. A strong contingent of younger executives and a surprising sprinkling at topmost echelons conceded that basically—despite excesses and inaccuracies—the arguments of Vale and Nader over the past few years made sense. The industry had relegated safety to a minor role in car design, it had focused attention on sales to the exclusion of most else, it had resisted change until forced to change through government regulation or the threat of it. It seemed, looking back, as if auto makers had become drunken on their own immensity and power, and had behaved like Goliaths, until in the end they were humbled by a David—Ralph Nader and, later, Emerson Vale.

  The David-Goliath equation, Adam thought, was apt. Nader particularly—alone, unaided, and with remarkable moral courage—took on the entire U.S. auto industry with its unlimited resources and strong Washington lobby, and, where others had failed, succeeded in having safety standards raised and new consumer-oriented legislation passed into law. The fact that Nader was a polemicist who, like all polemicists, took rigid poses, was often excessive, ruthless, and sometimes inaccurate, did not lessen his achievement. Only a bigot would deny that he had performed a valuable public service. Equally to the point: to achieve such a service, against such odds, a Nader-type was necessary.

  The Wall Street Journal observed, “So far as I know, Mr. Trenton, no auto executive has made that admission publicly before.”

  “If no one has,” Adam said, “maybe it’s time someone did.”

  Was it imagination, or had Jake Earlham—apparently busy with his pipe—gone pale? Adam detected a frown on the face of the Silver Fox, but what the hell; if necessary, he would argue with Elroy later. Adam had never been a “yes man.” Few who rose high in the auto industry were, and those who held back their honest opinions, fearing disapproval from seniors, or because of insecurity about their jobs, seldom made it higher than middle management, at best. Adam had not held back, believing that directness and honesty were useful contributions he could mak
e to his employers. The important thing, he had learned, was to stay an individual. A misguided notion which outsiders had of auto executives was that they conformed to a standard pattern, as if stamped out by cookie cutters. No concept could be more wrong. True, such men had certain traits in common—ambition, drive, a sense of organization, a capacity for work. But, apart from that, they were highly individual, with a better-than-average sprinkling of eccentrics, geniuses, and mavericks.

  Anyway, it had been said; nothing would undo it now. But there were postscripts.

  “If you’re going to quote that”—Adam surveyed the quartet of reporters—“some other things should be said as well.”

  “Which are?” It was the Newsweek girl’s query. She seemed less hostile than before, had stubbed out her cigarette and was making notes. Adam stole a glance: her skirt was as high as ever, her thighs and legs increasingly attractive in filmy gray nylon. He felt his interest sharpen, then tore his thoughts away.

  “First,” Adam said, “the critics have done their job. The industry is working harder on safety than it ever did; what’s more, the pressure’s staying on. Also, we’re consumer oriented. For a while, we weren’t. Looking back, it seems as if we got careless and indifferent to consumers without realizing it. Right now, though, we’re neither, which is why the Emerson Vales have become shrill and sometimes silly. If you accept their view, nothing an automobile maker does is ever right. Maybe that’s why Vale and his kind haven’t recognized yet—which is my second point—that the auto industry is in a whole new era.”

  AP queried, “If that’s true, wouldn’t you say the auto critics forced you there?”