route.'
Behind his glasses, Castaldy appeared hurt.
'Elroy,' Brett DeLosanto said, 'the kid's helping us think. So if that's what you want, quit pulling rank.'
'My God!' the Silver Fox complained. 'You birds are sensitive. I was just being myself.'
'Pretend to be a nice guy,' Brett urged. 'Instead of a vice-president.'
'You bastard!' But Braithwaite was grinning. He told Castaldy, 'Sorry! Let's go on.'
'What I really meant, Mr. Braithwaite'
'Elroy . . .'
'Yes, sir. What I meant was - it's part of the whole picture.'
They talked about environment and mankind's problems: over-population, a shortage of square footage everywhere, pollution in all forms, antagonisms, rebellion, new concepts and values among young people - the young who would soon rule the world. Yet, despite changes, cars would still be around for the foreseeable future; experience showed it. But what kind of cars? Some would be the same as now, or similar, but there must be other kinds, too, more closely reflecting society's needs.
'Speaking of needs,' Adam queried, 'can we sum them up?'
'If you wanted a word,' Castaldy answered, 'I'd say 'utitity.''
Brett DeLosanto tried it on his tongue. 'The Age of Utility.'
'I'll buy that in part,' the Silver Fox said. 'But not entirely.' He motioned for silence while gathering thoughts. The others waited. At length he intoned slowly, 'Okay, so utility's 'in.' It's the newest status symbol, or reverse- status - and we're agreed that whatever name you call it it means the same thing. I'll concede it's probably for the future, too. But that still doesn't allow for the rest of human nature: the impulse to mobility which is with us from the day we're born, and later a craving for power, speed, excitement which we never grow out of wholly. We're all Walter Mittys somewhere inside and, utility or not, pizazz is 'in,' too. It's never been out. It never will be.'
'I go with that,' Brett said. 'To prove your point look at the guys who build dune buggies. They're small car people who've found a Walter Mitty outlet.'
Castaldy added thoughtfully, 'And there are thousands and thousands of dune buggies. More all the time. Nowadays you even see them in cities.'
The Silver Fox shrugged. 'They take a utility Volkswagen without pizazz, strip it to the chassis, then build pizazz on.'
A thought stirred in Adam's mind. It related to what had been said . . . to the torn-down Volkswagen he had seen earlier tonight . . . and to something else, hazy: a phrase which eluded him . . . He searched his mind while the others talked.
When the phrase failed to come he remembered a magazine illustration he had seen a day or two ago. The magazine was still in his office. He retrieved it from a pile across the room and opened it. The others watched curiously.
The illustration was in color. It showed a dune buggy on a rugged beach, in action, banked steeply on its side. All wheels were fighting for traction, sand spewing behind. Cleverly, the photographer had slowed his shutter speed so that the dune buggy was blurred with movement. The text with the picture said the ranks of dune buggy owners were 'growing like mad'; nearly a hundred manufacturers were engaged in building bodies; California alone had eight thousand dune buggies.
Brett, glancing over Adam's shoulder, asked amusedly, 'You're not thinking of building dune buggies?'
Adam shook his head. No matter how large the dune buggy population became, they were still a fad, a specialist's creation, not the Big Three's business. Adam knew that. But the phrase which eluded him was somehow linked . . . Still not remembering, he tossed the magazine on a table, open.
Chance, as happens so often in life, stepped in.
Above the table where Adam tossed the magazine was a framed photo of the Apollo 11 Lunar Module during the first moon landing. It had been given to Adam, who liked it, and had had it framed and hung. In the photo, the module dominated; an astronaut stood beneath.
Brett picked up the magazine with the dune buggy picture and showed it to the others. He remarked, 'Those things go like hell! - I've driven one.' He studied the illustration again. 'But it's an ugly son-of-a-bitch.'
Adam thought: So was the lunar module.
Ugly indeed: all edges, corners, projections, oddities, imbalance; little symmetry, few clean curves. But because the lunar module did its job superbly, it defeated ugliness and, in the end, took on a beauty of its own.
The missing phrase came to him.
It was Rowena's. The morning after their night together she had said,
'You know what I'd say today? I'd say, 'ugly is beautiful.''
Ugly is Beautiful!
The lunar module was ugly. So was a dune buggy. But both were functional, utilitarian; they were built for a purpose and performed it.
So why not a car? Why not a deliberate, daring attempt to produce a car, ugly by existing standards, yet so suited to needs, environment, and present time - the Age of Utility - that it would become beautiful?
'I may have an idea about Farstar,' Adam said. 'Don't rush me. Let me put it out slowly.'
The others were silent. Marshaling thoughts, choosing words carefully, Adam began.
They were too experienced - all of them in the group - to go overboard, instantly, for a single idea. Yet he was aware of a sudden tension, missing before, and a quickening interest as he continued to speak. The Silver Fox was thoughtful, his eyes half-closed. Young Castaldy scratched an ear lobe - a habit when he concentrated - while the other product planner, who had said little so far, kept his eyes on Adam steadily. Brett DeLosanto's fingers seemed restless. As if instinctually, Brett drew a sketch pad toward him.
It was Brett, too, who jumped up when Adam finished, and began pacing the room. He tossed off thoughts, incomplete sentences, like fragments of a jigsaw . . . Artists for centuries have seen beauty in ugliness . . . Consider distorted, tortured sculpture from Michelangelo to Henry Moore . . . And in modern times, scrap metal welded in jumbles - shapeless to some, who scoff, but many don't . . . Take painting: the avant-garde forms; egg crates, soup cans in - collages . . . Or life itself! - a pretty young girl or a pregnant hag: which is more beautiful? . . . It depended always on the way you saw it. Form, symmetry, style, beauty were never arbitrary.
Brett thumped a fist into a palm. 'With Picasso in our nostrils, we've been designing cars like they rolled off a Gainsborough canvas.'
'There's a line in Genesis somewhere,' the Silver Fox said. 'I think it goes, 'Your eyes shall be opened.'' He added cautiously, 'But let's not get carried away. We may have something. Even if we do, though, there's a long road ahead.'
Brett was already sketching, his pencil racing through shapes, then discarding them. As he ripped off sheets from his pad, they dropped to the floor. It was a designer's way of thinking, just as others exchanged ideas through words. Adam reminded himself to retrieve the sheets later and save them; if something came of this night, they would be historic.
But he knew that what Elroy Braithwaite had said was true. The Silver Fox, through more years than any of the others here, had seen new cars develop from first ideas to finished products, but had suffered, too, through projects which looked promising at birth, only to be snuffed out later for unforeseen reasons, or sometimes for no reason at all.
Within the company a new car concept had countless barriers to pass, innumerable critiques to survive, interminable meetings, with opposition to overcome. And even if an idea survived all these, the executive vice- president, president, and chairman of the board had veto powers . . .
But some ideas got through and became reality.
The Orion had. So . . . just barely possibly
might this early, inchoate concept, the seed sown here and now, for Farstar.
Someone brought more coffee, and they talked on, far into the night.
Chapter 18
