The other two seemed not to have heard. Obviously, Adam decided, they would not mind if he got on with some work.
'When you're in a long race, say five hundred miles,' Erica said, 'does your mind ever wander? Do you ever think of something else?'
Pierre gave his boyish grin. 'God, no! Not if you figure to win, or even walk away instead of being carried out.' He explained, 'You've a lot to keep checking and remember. How others in the race are doing, your plans for passing guys ahead, or how not to let guys past you. Or maybe there's trouble, like if you scuff a tire it'll take a tenth of a second off your speed. So you feel it happen, you remember, you do sums in your head, figure everything, then decide when to pit for a tire change, which can win a race or lose it. You watch oil pressure fifty yards before entering every corner, then, on the backstretch, check all gauges, and you keep both ears tuned to the way the engine sings. Then there's signals from the pit crew to look out for. Some days you could use a secretary . . .'
Adam, concentrating on memo reading, screened the voices of Pierre and Erica out.
'I never knew all that,' Erica said. 'It will seem different watching now. I'll feel like an insider.'
'I'd like to have you see me race, Erica.' Pierre glanced across the room, then back. He lowered his voice slightly. 'Adam said you'd be at the Talladega 500, but there's other races before that.'
'Where ?'
'North Carolina, for one. Maybe you could come.' He looked at her directly and she was aware, for the first time, of a touch of arrogance, the star syndrome, the knowledge that he was a hero to the crowd. She supposed a lot of women had come Pierre's way.
'North Carolina's not so far.' Erica smiled. 'It's something to think about, isn't it?'
Some time later, the fact that Pierre Flodenhale was standing penetrated Adam's consciousness.
'I guess I'll be moving on, Adam,' Pierre said. 'Thanks a lot for the ride and having me in.'
Adam returned a folder to his briefcase - a ten-year population shift estimate, prepared for study in conjunction with consumer car preference trends. He apologized, 'I haven't been much of a host. I hope my wife made up for me.'
'Sure did.'
'You can take my car.' He reached in his pocket for keys. 'If you'll phone my secretary tomorrow, tell her where it is, she'll have it picked up.'
Pierre hesitated. 'Thanks, but Erica said . .'
Erica bustled into the living room, pulling a light car coat over her pajamas. 'I'll drive Pierre home.'
Adam started to say, 'There's no need'
'It's a nice night,' she insisted. 'And I feel like some air.'
Moments later, outside, car doors slammed, an engine revved and receded. The house was silent.
Adam worked a half hour more, then went upstairs. He was climbing into bed when he heard the car return and Erica come in, but was asleep by the time she reached the bedroom.
He dreamed of Rowena.
Erica dreamed of Pierre.
Chapter 17
A belief among automobile product planners is that the most successful ideas for new cars are conceived suddenly, like unannounced star shell bursts, during informal, feet-on-desk bull sessions in the dead of night.
There are precedents proving this true. Ford's Mustang - most startling Detroit trend setter after World War II, and forerunner to an entire generation of Ford, GM, Chrysler, and American Motors products afterward - had its origins that way, and so, less spectacularly, have others. This is the reason why product teams sometimes linger in offices when others are abed, letting their smoke and conversation drift, and hoping - like proficient Cinderellas - that magic in some form will touch their minds.
On a night in early June - two weeks after Hank Kreisel's cottage party - Adam Trenton and Brett DeLosanto nurtured the same kind of wish.
Because the Orion, also, was begun at night, they and others hoped that a muse for Farstar - next major project ahead - might be wooed the same way.
Over several months past, innumerable think sessions had been held - some involving large groups, others small, and still more composed of duos like Adam and Brett - but from none of them yet had anything emerged to confirm a direction which must be decided on soon. The basement block work (as Brett DeLosanto called it) had been done. Projection papers were assembled which asked and answered, more or less: Where are we today? Who's selling to whom? What are we doing right? Wrong? What do people think they want in a car? What do they really want? Where will they, and we, be five years from now? Politically? Socially? Intellectually? Sexually? What'll populations be? Tastes? Fashions? What new issues, controversies, will evolve? How will age groups shape up? And who'll be rich? Poor? In between? Where?
Why? All these, and a myriad other questions, facts, statistics, had sped in and out of computers. Now what was needed was something no computer could simulate: a gut feeling, a hunch, a shaft of insight, a touch of genius.
One problem was: to determine the shape of Farstar, they ought to know how Orion would fare. But the Orion's introduction was still four months away; even then, its impact could not be judged fully until half a year after that. So what the planners must do was what the auto industry had always done because of long lead times required for new models - guess.
Tonight's session, for Adam and Brett, began in the company teardown room.
The teardown room was more than a room; it was a department occupying a closely guarded building - a storehouse of secrets which few outsiders penetrated. Those who did, however, found it a source of unwaveringly honest information, for the teardown room's function was to dissect company products and competitors', then compare them objectively with each other. All big three auto companies had teardown rooms of their own, or comparable systems.
In the teardown environment, if a competitor's car or component was sturdier, lighter, more economical, assembled better, or superior in any other way, the analysts said so. No local loyalties ever swayed a judgment.
Company engineers and designers who had boobed were sometimes embarrassed by teardown room revelations, though they would be even more embarrassed if word leaked out to press or public. It rarely did. Nor did other companies release adverse reports about defects in competitors' cars; they knew it was a tactic which could boomerang tomorrow. In any case, objectives of the teardown room were positive - to police the company's products and designs, and to learn from others.
Adam and Brett had come to study three small cars in their torndown state - the company's own minicompact, a Volkswagen, and another minicar, Japanese.
A technician, working late at Adam's request, admitted them through locked outer doors to a lighted lobby, then through more doors to a large high-ceilinged room, lined with recessed racks extending from floor to ceiling.
'Sorry to spoil your evening, Neil,' Adam said. 'We couldn't make it sooner.'
'No sweat, Mr. Trenton. I'm on overtime.' The elderly technician, a skilled mechanic who had once worked on assembly lines and now helped take cars apart, led the way to a section of racks, some of which had been pulled out. 'Everything's ready that you asked for.'
Brett DeLosanto looked around him. Though he had been here many times before, the teardown operation never failed to fascinate him.
The department bought cars the way the public did - through dealers.
Purchases were in names of individuals, so no dealer ever knew a car that he was selling was for detailed study instead of normal use. The precaution ensured that all cars received were routine production models.
As soon as a car arrived, it was driven to the basement and taken apart.
