most important thing there is. You breathe, eat, sleep cars, sometimes remember them when you're making love. You wake up in the night, it's cars you think about - those you're designing, others you'd like to. It's like a religion.' He added curtly, 'If you don't feel that way, you don't belong here.'
'I do love cars,' the youth said. 'I always have, as long as I remember, in just the way you said. It's only lately . . .' He left the sentence hanging, as if unwilling to voice heresy a second time.
Brett made no other comment. Opinions, appraisals of that kind were individual, and decisions because of them, personal. No one else could help because in the end it all depended on your own ideas, values, and sometimes conscience. Besides, there was another factor which Brett had no intention of discussing with these two: Lately he had experienced some of the same questioning and doubts himself.
The chief of Color and Interiors had a skeleton immediately inside his office, used for anatomy studies in relation to auto seating. The skeleton hung slightly off the ground, suspended by a chain attached to a plate in the skull. Brett DeLosanto shook hands with it as he came in. 'Good morning, Ralph.'
Dave Heberstein came from behind his desk and nodded toward the main studio. 'Let's go through.' He patted the skeleton affectionately in passing. 'A loyal and useful staff member who never criticizes, never asks for a raise.'
The Color Center, which they entered, was a vast, domed chamber, circular and constructed principally of glass, allowing daylight to flood in. The overhead dome gave a cathedral effect, so that several enclosed booths for light-controlled viewing of color samples and fabrics - appeared like chapels. Deep carpeting underfoot deadened sound. Throughout the room were display boards, soft and hard trim samples, and a color library comprising every color in the spectrum as well as thousands of subcolors.
Heberstein stopped at a display table. He told Brett DeLosanto, 'Here's what I wanted you to see.'
Under glass, a half-dozen upholstery samples had been arranged, each identified by mill and purchase number. Other similar samples were loose on the table top. Though variously colored, they bore the generic name 'Metallic Willow.' Dave Heberstein picked one up. 'Remember these?'
'Sure ' Brett nodded. 'I liked them, still do.'
'I did, too. In fact, I recommended them for use.' Heberstein fingered the sample which was pleasantly soft to the touch. It had - as had all the others - an attractive patterned silver fleck. 'It's crimped yarn with a metallic thread.'
Both men were aware that the fabric had been introduced as an extra cost option with the company's top line models this year. It had proven popular and soon, in differing colors, would be available for the Orion.
Brett asked, 'So what's the fuss?'
'Letters,' Heberstein said. 'Customers' letters which started coming in a couple of weeks ago.' He took a key ring from his pocket and opened a drawer in the display table. Inside was a file containing about two dozen photocopied letters. 'Read a few of those.'
The correspondence, which was mainly from women or their husbands, though a few lawyers had written on behalf of clients, had a common theme. The women had sat in their cars wearing mink coats. In each case when they left the car, part of the mink had adhered to the seat, depleting and damaging the coat. Brett whistled softly.
'Sales ran a check through the computer,' Heberstein confided. 'In every case the car concerned had Metallic Willow seats. I understand there are still more letters coming in.'
'Obviously you've made tests.' Brett handed back the folder of letters.
'So what do they show?'
'They show the whole thing's very simple; trouble is, nobody thought of it before it happened. You sit on the seat, the cloth depresses and opens up. That's normal, of course, but what also open up in this case are the metallic threads, which is still okay, providing you don't happen to be wearing mink. But if you are, some of the fine hairs go clown between the metallic threads. Get up, and the threads close, holding the mink hairs so they pull out from the coat. You can ruin a three-thousand-dollar coat in one trip around the block.'
Brett grinned. 'If word gets around, every woman in the country with an old mink will rush out for a ride, then put in a claim for a new coat.'
'Nobody's laughing. Over at staff they've pushed the panic button.'
'The fabric's out of production?'
Heberstein nodded. 'As of this morning. And from now on we have another test around here with new fabrics. Rather obviously, it's known as the mink test.'
'What's happening about all the seats already out?'
' God knows! And I'm glad that part's not my headache. The last I beard, it had gone as high as the chairman of the board. I do know the legal department is settling all claims quietly, as soon as they come in.
They've figured there'll be a few phony ones, but better to pay if there's a chance of keeping the whole thing under wraps.'
'Mink wraps?'
The studio head said dourly, 'Spare me the lousy jokes. You'll get all this through channels, but I thought you and a few others should know right away because of the Orion.'
'Thanks.' Brett nodded thoughtfully. It was true - changes would have to be made in Orion plans, though the particular area was not his responsibility. He was grateful, however, for another reason.
Within the next few days, he now decided, he must change either his car or the seats in his present one. Brett's car had Metallic Willow fabric and, coincidentally, he planned a birthday gift of mink next month which he had no wish to see spoiled. The mink, which undoubtedly would be worn in his car, was for Barbara.
Barbara Zaleski.
Chapter 6
'Dad,' Barbara said, 'I'll be staying over in New York for a day or two.
I thought I'd let you know.'
In the background, through the telephone, she could hear an overlay of factory noise. Barbara had had to wait several minutes while the operator located Matt Zaleski in the plant; now, presumably, he had taken the call somewhere close to the assembly line.
Her father asked, 'Why?'
'Why what?'
'Why, do you have to stay?'
She said lightly, 'Oh, the usual kind of thing. Client problems at the agency. Some meetings about next year's advertising; they need me here for them.' Barbara was being patient. She really shouldn't have to explain, as if she were still a child requiring permission to be out late. If she decided to stay a week, a month, or forever in New York, that was it.
'Couldn't you come home nights, then go back in the morning?'
'No, Dad, I couldn't.'
Barbara hoped this wasn't going to develop into another argument in which it would be necessary to point out that she was twenty-nine, a legal adult who had voted in two presidential elections, and had a responsible job which she was good at. The job, incidentally, made her financially free so that she could set up a separate establishment any time she wanted, except that she lived with her father, knowing he was lonely after her mother's death, and not wanting to make things worse for him.
'When will you be home then?'
'By the weekend for sure. You can live without me till then. And take care of your ulcer. By the way, how is
