appearing anything but an intellectual. But his soft voice was compelling and others fell silent as if a spokesman had moved in.
'We have a good many rap sessions here,' the swarthy student said. 'Those of us taking Transportation Design want to be a part of the auto industry.
We're excited by the idea. Cars turn us on. But it doesn't mean that any one of us is headed for Detroit wearing blinders.'
'Let's hear the rest of it,' Brett urged. 'Keep talking!' Coming back, listening to forthright student views again - views unencumbered by defeats, disillusion, too much knowledge of practicalities or financial limitations - was an emotional experience like having personal batteries charged.
'A thing about the auto industry nowadays,' the swarthy student said, 'is it's tuned in to responsibility. Sometimes the critics won't admit it, but it has. There's a new feeling. Air pollution, safety, quality, all those things aren't just talking subjects any more. Something's being done, this time for real.'
The others were still quiet. Several more students had joined the group; Brett guessed they were from other courses. Though a dozen art specialties beside automotive design were taught here, the subject of cars always evoked general interest within the school.
'Well,' the same student continued, 'the auto industry has some other responsibilities too. One of them is numbers.'
It was curious, Brett thought, that at the airport earlier he had been thinking about numbers himself.
'It's the numbers that eat us up,' the soft-voiced, swarthy student said.
'They undo every effort the car people make. Take safety. Safer cars are engineered and built, so what happens? More get on the road; accidents go up, not down. With air pollution it's the same. Cars being made right now have the best engines ever, and they pollute less than any engine ever did before. There are even cleaner ones ahead. Right?'
Brett nodded. 'Right.'
'But the numbers keep going up. We're bragging now about producing ten million new cars a year, so no matter how good anybody gets at emission control, the total pollution gets worse. It's wild!'
'Supposing all that's true, what's the alternative? To ration cars?'
Someone said, 'Why not?'
'Let me ask you something, Mr. DeLosanto,' the swarthy student said. 'You ever been in Bermuda?'
Brett shook his head.
'It's an island of twenty-one square miles. To make sure they keep room to move around, the Bermuda government does ration cars. First they limit engine capacity, body length and width. Then they allow only one car for every household.'
A voice among the newcomers objected, 'Nuts to that!'
'I'm not saying we should be that strict,' the original speaker persisted. 'I'm simply saying we ought to draw a line somewhere. And it isn't as if the auto industry couldn't stay healthy producing, the same number of cars it does now, or that people couldn't manage. They manage in Bermuda fine.'
'If you tried it here,' Brett said, 'you might have a new American Revolution. Besides, not being able to sell as many cars as people want to buy is an attack on free enterprise.' He grinned, offsetting his own words. 'It's heresy.'
In Detroit, he knew, many would view the idea as heretical. But he wondered: Was it really? How much longer could the auto industry, at home and overseas, produce vehicles - with whatever kind of power plant - in continually increasing quantity? Wouldn't someone, somewhere, somehow, have to rule, as Bermuda had done: Enough! Wasn't the day approaching when a measure of control of numbers would become essential for the common good? Taxis were limited in number everywhere; so, to an extent, were trucks. Why not private cars? And if it didn't happen, North America could consist eventually of one big traffic jam; at times it was close to that already. Therefore, wouldn't auto industry leaders be wiser, more far-sighted and responsible, if they took an initiative in self-restraint themselves?
But he doubted if they would.
A fresh voice cut in, 'Not all of us feel the way Harvey does. Some think there's room for lots more cars yet.'
'And we figure to design a few.'
'Damn right!'
'Sorry, Harv! The world's not ready for you.'
But there were several murmurs of dissent, and it was obvious that the swarthy student, Harvey, had a following.
The lanky blond youth who had declared earlier, 'We're nutty about cars,' called, 'Tell us about the Orion.'
'Get me a pad,' Brett said. 'I'll show you.'
Someone passed one, and heads craned over while he sketched. He drew the Orion swiftly in profile and head-on view, knowing the lines of the car the way a sculptor knows a carving he has toiled on. There were appreciative 'wows,' and 'really great!'
Questions followed. Brett answered frankly. When possible, design students were fed these privileged tidbits, like heady bait, to keep their interest high. However, Brett was careful to fold and pocket his drawings afterward.
As students drifted back to classes, the courtyard session broke up. For the remainder of his time at the Art Center College of Design - through the same day and the next - Brett delivered a formal lecture, interviewed automotive design students individually, and critically appraised experimental car models which student teams had designed and built.
An instinct among this crop of students, Brett discovered, was toward severity of design, allied with function and utility. Curiously, it had been a similar combination of ideas agreed to by Brett, Adam Trenton, Elroy Braithwaite and the others, on the memorable night, two and a half months earlier, when the initial concept for Farstar had emerged. Through the time he had already spent on early Farstar designs, still being labored over in a closely guarded studio at Detroit, and now here, Brett was struck by the aptness of Adam's phrase: Ugly is Beautiful!
History showed that artistic trends - the latticework of all commercial designing - always began subtly and often when least expected. No one knew why artistic tastes changed, or how, or when the next development would come; it seemed simply that human virtuosity and perception were restless, ready to move on. Observing the students' work now - ignoring a degree of naivety and imperfection - and remembering his own designs of recent months, Brett felt an exhilaration at being part of an obviously fresh, emerging trend.
Some of his enthusiasm, it seemed, transmitted itself to students whom he interviewed during his second day at the school. Following the interviews, Brett decided to recommend two potential graduates to the company Personnel and Organization staff for eventual hiring. One was the short, swarthy student, Harvey, who had argued forcefully in the courtyard; his design portfolio showed an ability and imagination well above average.
Whichever auto company he worked for, Harvey was probably headed for trouble and collisions in Detroit. He was an original thinker, a maverick who would not be silenced, or dissuaded easily from strong opinions.
Fortunately, while not always heeding mavericks, the auto industry encouraged them, knowing their value as a hedge against complacent thinking.
Whatever happened, Brett suspected, Detroit and Harvey would find each other interesting.
The other candidate he chose was the gangling youth with untidy blond hair whose talent, too, was obviously large. Brett's suggestion of future employment, so the student said, was the second approach made to him. Another auto firm among the Big Three had already promised him a design job, if he wanted it, on graduation.
'But if there's any chance of working near you, Mr. DeLosanto,' the young man said, 'I'll go with your company for sure.'
Brett was touched, and flattered, but uncertain how to answer.
His uncertainty was based on a decision reached, alone in his Los Angeles hotel room, the previous night. It was now mid-August, and Brett had decided: at year end, unless something happened drastically to change his
