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 PR 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 wheels 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 melange 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 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
