had taken home the night before and had worked on, after dinner, until bedtime.
Among the few executive cars already parked, Adam noticed two limousines in vice-presidents' row - a series of parking slots near an exclusive elevator which rose nonstop to the fifteenth floor, preserve of the company's senior officers. A parking spot closest to the elevator was reserved for the chairman of the board, the next for the president; after that came vice-presidents in descending order of seniority. Where a man parked was a significant prestige factor in the auto industry. The higher his rank, the less distance he was expected to walk from his car to his desk.
Of the two limousines already in, one belonged to Adam's own chief, the Product Development vice- president. The other was the car of the Vice-President Public Relations.
Adam bounded up a short flight of stairs, two at a time, entered a doorway to the building's main lobby, then continued briskly to a regular staff elevator where he jabbed a button for the tenth floor.
Alone in the elevator, he waited impatiently while the computer-controlled mechanism took its time about starting, then on the way up experienced the eagerness he always felt to become immersed in a new day's work. As always, through most of the past two years, the Orion was at the forefront of his thoughts. Physically, Adam felt good.
Only a sense of tension troubled him - a mental tautness he had become aware of lately, a nuisance, illogical, yet increasingly difficult to shake off. He took a small, green-and-black capsule from an inside pocket, slipped it into his mouth and gulped it down.
From the elevator, along a silent, deserted corridor which would see little activity for another hour, Adam strode to his own office suite - a corner location, also a token of rank, rating only a little lower than a vice- president's parking slot.
As he went in, he saw a pile of newly delivered mail on his secretary's desk. There was a time, earlier in his career, when Adam would have stopped to riffle through it, to see what was interesting and new, but he had long since shed the habit, nowadays valuing his time too much for that kind of indulgence. One of the duties of a top-notch secretary was - as Adam once heard the company president declare - to 'filter out the crap' from the mountain of paper which came her boss's way. She should be allowed to go through everything first, using her judgment about what to refer elsewhere, so that an executive mind could concern itself with policy and ideas, unencumbered by detail which others, in lowlier posts, could be trusted to handle.
That was why few of the thousands of letters yearly which individual car owners addressed to heads of auto companies ever reached the person whom the sender named. All such letters were screened by secretaries, then sent to special departments which dealt with them according to set routines. Eventually the sum of all complaints and comments in a year was tabulated and studied, but no senior executive could cope with them individually and do his job as well. An occasional exception was where a correspondent was shrewd enough to write to an executive's home address - not hard to find, since most were listed in Who's Who, available in public libraries.
Then an executive, or his wife, might well read the letter, become interested in a particular case, and follow through personally.
The first thing Adam Trenton noticed in his office was a glowing orange light on an intercom box behind his desk. It showed that the Product Development vice-president had called, almost certainly this morning. Adam touched a switch above the light and waited.
A voice, metallic through the intercom, demanded, 'What's the excuse today? Accident on the freeway, or did you oversleep?'
Adam laughed, his eyes flicking to a wall clock which showed 7:23. He depressed the key connecting him with the vice-president's office five floors above. 'You know my problem, Elroy. Just can't seem to get out of bed.'
It was rarely that the head of Product Development beat Adam in; when he did, he liked to make the most of it.
'Adam, how are you fixed for the next hour?'
'I've a few things. Nothing I can't change around.'
From the windows of his office, as they talked, Adam could see the early morning freeway traffic. At this time the volume was moderately heavy, though not so great as an hour ago when production workers were heading in to factories to begin day shifts. But the traffic pattern would change again soon as thousands of office employees, now breakfasting at home, added their cars to the hurrying stream. The pressures and easings of traffic density, like variations in the wind, always fascinated Adam - not surprisingly, since automobiles, the traffic's chief constituent, were the idee fixe of his own existence. He had devised a scale of his own - like the Beaufort wind scale, ranging from one to ten degrees of volume - which he applied to traffic as he viewed it. Right now, he decided, the flow was at Volume Five.
'I'd like you up here for a while,' Elroy Braithwaite, the vice-president, said. 'I guess you know our buddy, Emerson Vale, is off in orbit again.'
'Yes.' Adam had read the Free Press report of Vale's latest charges before leaving the newspaper beside the bed where Erica was sleeping.
'Some of the press have asked for comments. This time Jake thinks we should make a few.'
Jake Earlham was the Vice-President Public Relations, whose car had also been parked below as Adam came in.
'I agree with him,' Adam said.
'Well, I seem to have been elected, but I'd like you in on the session.
It'll be informal. Somebody from AP, the Newsweek gal, The Wall Street Journal, and Bob Irvin from the Detroit News. We're going to see them all together.'
'Any ground rules, briefing?' Usually, in advance of auto company press conferences, elaborate preparations were made, with public relations departments preparing lists of anticipated questions, which executives then studied. Sometimes rehearsals were staged at which PR-men played reporters. A major press conference took weeks in planning, so that auto company spokesmen were as well prepared as a U.S. President facing the press, sometimes better.
'No briefing,' Elroy Braithwaite said. 'Jake and I have decided to hang loose on this one. We'll call things the way we see them. That goes for you too.'
'Okay,' Adam said. 'Are you ready now?'
'About ten minutes. I'll call you.'
Waiting, Adam emptied his attache case of last night's work, then used a dictating machine to leave a series of instructions for his secretary, Ursula Cox, who would deal with them with predictable efficiency when she came in. Most of Adam's homework, as well as the instructions, concerned the Orion. In his role as Advanced Vehicles Planning Manager he was deeply involved with the new, still-secret car, and today a critical series of tests involving a noise-vibration problem with the Orion would be reviewed at the company's proving ground thirty miles outside Detroit. Adam, who would have to make a decision afterward, had agreed to drive to the test review with a colleague from Design-Styling. Now, because of the press conference just called, one of Ursula's instructions was to reschedule the proving ground arrangements for later in the day.
He had better, Adam decided, reread the Emerson Vale news story before the press session started. Along with the pile of mail outside were some morning newspapers. He collected a Free Press and a New York Times, then returned to his office and spread them out, this time memorizing, point by point, what Vale had said in Washington the day before.
Adam had met Emerson Vale once when the auto critic was in Detroit to make a speech. Like several others from the industry, Adam Trenton had attended out of curiosity and, on being introduced to Vale ahead of the meeting, was surprised to find him an engagingly pleasant young man, not in the least the brash, abrasive figure Adam had expected. Later, when Vale faced his audience from the platform, he was equally personable, speaking fluently and easily while marshaling arguments with skill. The entire presentation, Adam was forced to admit, was impressive and, from the applause afterward, a large part of the audience - which had paid for admission - felt the same way.
There was one shortcoming. To anyone with specialized knowledge, many of Emerson Vale's arguments were as porous as a leaky boat.
While attacking a highly technical industry, Vale betrayed his own lack of technical know-how and was
