wheels-99
"Oh shut up, Nigel," Barbara said.
Osch continued, "The trick is to remind ypurself that the pay is good,
and most times-except today-I like the work. There isn't a business
more exciting. I'll tell you something else: No matter how well they've
built the Orion, if it's a success, and sells, it'll be because of us
and advertising. They know it; we know it. So what else matters?"
"Keith Yates-Brown matters," Barbara said. "And he makes me sick."
Nigel Knox mimicked in a high-pitched voice, "That's generous of you,
J.P. Damn generous! Now Fm going to lie down, J.P., and I hope you'll
pee all over me."
Knox giggled. For the first time since this morning's meeting, Barbara
laughed.
Teddy Osch glared at them both. "Keith Yates-Brown is my meal ticket
and yours, and let's none of us forget it. Sure, I couldn't do what he
does-keep snugged up to Underwood's and other people's anuses and look
like I enjoyed it, but it's a part of this business which somebody has
to take care of, so why fault him for a thorough job? Right now, and
plenty of other times while we're doing the creative bit, which we
like, Yates-Brown is in bed with the client, stroking whatever's
necessary to keep him warm and happy, and telling him about us, how
great we are. And if you'd ever been in an agency which lost an
automotive account, you'd know why I'm glad he is."
A waiter bustled up. "Veal Parmigiana's good today." At Joe & Rose no
one bothered with frills like menus.
Barbara and Nigel Knox nodded. "Okay, with noodles," Osch told the
waiter. "And martinis all around."
Already, Barbara realized, the liquor had re- 1 00-wheels
laxed them. Now, the session was following a familiar pattern-at first
gloomy, then self-consoling; soon, after one more martini probably, it would
become philosophic. In her own few years at the OJL agency she had attended
several postmortems of this kind, in New York at advertising "in" places
like Joe & Rose, in Detroit at the Caucus Club or Jim's Garage, downtown. It
was at the Caucus she had once seen an elderly advertising man break down
and sob because months of his work had been brusquely thrown out an hour
earlier.
"I worked at an agency once," Osch said, "where we lost a car account. It
happened just bef6re the weekend; nobody expected it, except the other
agency which took the account away from us. We called it 'Black Friday."'
He fingered the stem of his glass, looking back across the years. "A
hundred agency people were fired that Friday afternoon. Others didn't wait
to be fired; they knew there was nothing left for them, so they scurried
up and down Madison and Third, trying for jobs at other places before they
closed. Guys were scared. A good many had fancy homes, big mortgages, kids
in college. Trouble is, other agencies don't like the smell of losers;
besides, some of the older guys were just plain burned out. I remember,
two hit the bottle and stayed on it; one committed suicide."
"You survived," Barbara said.
"I was young. If it happened now, I'd go the way the others did." He
raised his glass. "To Keith Yates-Brown."
Nigel Knox placed his partially drunk martini on the table. "Oh no,
really. I couldn't possibly."
Barbara shook her head. "Sorry, Teddy."
"Then I'll drink the toast alone," Osch said. And did.
"The trouble with our kind of advertising,"
wheels-101
Barbara said, "is that we offer a nonexistent car to an unreal person." The
three of them had almost finished their latest martinis; she was aware of
her own speech slurring. "We all know you couldn't possibly buy the car
that's in the ads, even if you wanted to, because the photographs are lies.
When we take pictures of the real cars we use a wide-angle lens to balloon
the front, a stretch lens to make the side view longer. We even make the
color look better than it is with spray and powder puffs and camera
filters."
Osch waved a hand airily. "Tricks of the trade."
A waiter saw the hand wave. "Another round, Mr. Osch? Your food will be
here soon."
The creative chief nodded.
Barbara insisted, "It's still a nonexistent car."
"That's jolly good!" Nigel Knox clapped vigorously, knocking over his
empty glass and causing occupants of other tables to glance their way
amusedly. "Now tell us who's the unreal person we advertise it to."
Barbara spoke slowly, her thoughts fitting together less readily than
usual. "Detroit executives who have the final word on advertising don't
understand people. They work too hard; there isn't time. Therefore most
car advertising consists of a Detroit executive advertising to another De-
troit executive."
"I have it!" Nigel Knox bobbed up and down exuberantly. "Everybody knows
a Detroit panjandrum is an unreal person. Clever! Clever!"
"So are you," Barbara said. "I dont think, at this point, I could even
think panjan... wotsit, let alone say it." She put a hand to her face,
wishing she had drunk more slowly.
"Don't touch the plates," their waiter warned, "they're hot." The Veal
Parmigiana, with savoury steaming noodles was put before them, plus
102-wheels
another three martinis. "Complimentsa the next table," the waiter said.
Osch acknowledged the drinks, then sprinkled red peppers liberally on his
noodles.
"My goodness," Nigel Knox warned, "those are terribly hot."
The creative chief told him, "I need a new fire in me.-
There was a silence while they began eating, then Teddy Osch looked across
at Barbara. "Considering the way you feel, I guess it's all to the good
youre coming off the Orion program."
"What?" Startled, she put down her knife and fork.
"I was supposed to tell you. I hadn't got around to it."
"You rnean I'm fired?"
He shook his head. "New assignment. You'll hear tomorrow."
"Teddy," she pleaded, "you have to tell me now."
He said firmly, "No. You'll get it from Keith Yates-Brown. He's the one
who recommended you. Remember?-the guy you wouldn't drink a toast to."
Barbara had an empty feeling.
"All I can tell you," Osch said, "is I wish it were me instead of you."
He sipped his fresh martini; of the three of them, he was the only one
still drinking. "If I was younger I think it might have been me. But I
guess I'll go on doing what I always have: advertising that nonexistent
car to the unreal person."
"Teddy," Barbara said, "I'm sorry."
"No need to be. The sad thing is, I think you're right." The creative
chief blinked. "Christl Those peppers are hotter than I thought." He
produced a handkerchief and wiped his eyes.
chapter seven
Some thh-ty miles outside Detroit, occupying a half thousand acres of superb
Michigan countryside, the auto company's proving ground lay like a Balkan
state bristling with defended borders. Only one entrance to the proving
ground existed -through a security-policed double barrier, remarkably
similar to East-West Berlin's Checkpoint Charlie. Here, visitors were halted
to have credentials examined; no one, without prearranged authority, got in.
Apart from this entry point, the entire area was enclosed by a high,
chain-link fence, patrolled by guards. Inside the fence, trees and other
protective planting formed a visual shield against watchers from outside.
What the company was guarding were some of its more critical secrets.
Among them: experiments with new cars, trucks, and their components, as
well as drive-to-destruction performance tests on current models.
The testing was carried out on some hundred and fifty miles of
roads-routes to nowhereranging from specimens of the very best to the
absolute worst or most precipitous in the world. Among the latter was a
duplicate of San Francisco's horrendously steep Filbert Street, appropri-
ately named (so San Franciscans say) since only nuts drive down it. A
Belgian block road jolted every screw, weld, and rivet in a car, and set
drivers' teeth chattering. Even rougher, and used for truck trials, was
a replica of an African game trail, with tree roots, rocks, and mud holes.
One road section, built on level ground, was known as Serpentine Alley.
This was a series of sharp S-bends, closely spaced and absolutely flat,
104-wheels
so that absence of any banking in the turns strained a car to its limits
when cornering at high speed.
At the moment, Adam Trenton was hurling an Orion around Serpentine Alley
at 60 mph.
Tires screamed savagely, and smoked, as the car flung hard left, then
right, then left again. Each time, centrifugal force strained urgently,
protestingly, against the direction of the turn. To the three occupants
it seemed as if the car might roll over at any moment, even though
knowledge told them that it shouldn't.
Adam glanced behind him. Brett DeLosanto, sitting centrally in the rear
seat, was belted in, as weU as bracing himself by his arms on either side.
The designer called over the seatback, "My liver and spleen just switched
sides. I'm counting on the next bend to get them back."
Beside Adam, Ian Jameson, a slight, sandyhaired Scot from Engineering, sat
imperturbably. Jameson was undoubtedly thinking what Adam realized-that
there was no necessity for them to be going around the turns at all;
professional drivers had already put the Orion through grueling tests
there which it survived handily. The trio's real purpose at the proving
ground today was to review an NVH problem (the initials were engineerese
for Noise, Vibration, and Harshness) which prototype Orions had developed
at very high speed. But on their way to the fast track they had passed the
entry to Serpentine Alley, and Adam swung on to it first, hoping that
throwing the car around would release some of his own tension, which he
had continued to be aware of since his departure from the press session
an hour or two earlier.
The tension, which started early this morning, had occurred more
frequently of late. So a
wheels-105
few weeks ago Adam made an appointment with a physician who probed,
pressed, performed assorted tests, and finally told him there was nothing
wrong organically except, possibly, too much acid in his system. The
doctor then talked vaguely of 11 ulcer personality," the need to stop
worrying, and added a kindergarten bromide, "A hill is only as steep as
it looks to the man climbing it."
While Adam listened impatiently, wishing that medics would assume more
knowledge and intelligence on the part of patients, the doctor pointed
out that the human body had its own builtin warning devices and
suggested easing up for a while, which Adam already knew was impossible
this year. The doctor finally got down to what Adam had come for and
prescribed Librium. capsules with a recommended dosage. Adam promptly
exceeded the dosage, and continued to. He also failed to tell the doctor
that he was taking Valium, obtained elsewhere. Today, Adam had swallowed
several pills, including one just before leaving downtown, but without
discernible effect. Now, since the S-turns had done nothing to release
his tension either, he surreptitiously transferred another pill from a
pocket to his mouth.
The action reminded him that he still hadn't told Erica, either about
the visit to the doctor, or the pills, which he kept in his briefcase,
out of sight.
Near the end of Serpentine Alley, Adam swung the car sharply, letting
the speed drop only slightly before heading for the track which was used
for high-speed runs. Outside, the trees, meadows, and connecting roads
sped by. The speedometer returned to 60, then edged to 65.
With one hand, Adam rechecked the tightness of his own lap straps and
shoulder harness. Without turning his head, he told the others, "Okay,
let's shake this baby out."
106-wheels
They hurtled on the fast track, sweeping past another car, their speed
still climbing. It was 70 mph, and Adam caught a glimpse of a face as
the driver of the other car glanced sideways.
Ian Jameson craned left to watch the speedometer needle, now touching
75. The sandy-haired engineer had been a key figure in studying the
Orion's present NVH problem.
"We'll hear it any moment," Jameson said.
Speed was 78. The wind, largely of their own creating, roared as they
flew around the track. Adam had the accelerator floored. Now he touched
the automatic speed control, letting the computer take over, and removed
his foot. Speed crept up. It passed 80.
"Here she comes," Jameson said. As he spoke, the car shuddered
violently-an intense pulsation, shaking everything, including occupants.
Adam found his vision blurring slightly from the rapid movement.
Simultaneously a metallic hum rose and fell.
The engineer said, "Right on schedule." He sounded complacent, Adam
thought, as if he would have been disappointed had the trouble not
appeared.
"At fair grounds Brett DeLosanto raised his voice to a shout to make
himself heard; his words came through unevenly because of the shaking.
"At fair grounds, people pay money for a ride like this."
"And if we left it in," Adam said, "most drivers would never know about
it. Not many take their cars up to eighty."
Ian Jameson said, "But some do."
Adam conceded gloomily: it was true. A handful of madcap drivers would
hit eighty, and among them one or two might be startled by the sudden
vibration, then lose control, killing or maiming themselves and others.
Even without
wheels-107
accident, the NVH effect could become known, and people like Emerson Vale
would make the most of it. It was a few freak accidents at high speed,
Adam recalled, with drivers who over- or understeered in emergencies,
which had killed the Corvair only a few years ago. And although by the
time Ralph Nader published his now-famous indictment of the Corvair, early
faults had been corrected, the car had still gone to a precipitate end
under the weight of publicity which Nader generated.
Adam, and others in the company who knew about the high-speed shake, had
no intention of allowing a similar episode to mar the Orion's record.
It was a reason why the company high command was being close-mouthed so
that rumors of the trouble did not leak outside. A vital question at
this moment was: How could the shake be eliminated and what would it
cost? Adam was here to find out and, because of the urgency, had
authority to make decisions.
He took back control from the car's computer and allowed the speed to
fall off to 20 mph. Then, twice more, at differing rates of acceleration
he took it up to 80. Each time, both the vibration and the point at
which it occurred were identical.
"There's a difference in sheet metal on this car." Adam remembered that
the Orion he was driving was an early prototype, handmade-as were all
prototypes so far-because assembly line manufacture had not yet started.
"Makes no difference to the effect," Ian Jameson declared flatly. "We've
had an exact Orion out here, another on the dynamometer. They all do it.
Same speed, same NVH."
"It feels like a woman having an orgasm," Brett said. "Sounds like it,
too." He asked the engineer, "Does it do any harm?"
"As f ar as we can tell, no."
108-wheels
"Then it seems a shame to take it out."
Adam snapped, "For Christ's sake, cut the stupidityl Of course we have to
take it outl If it were an appearance problem, you wouldn't be so goddarn
smug."
'Well, well," Brett said. "Something else appears to be vibrating."
They had left the fast track. Abruptly, Adam braked the car, skidding so
that all three were thrown forward against their straps. He turned onto
a grass shoulder. As the car stopped, he unbuckled, then got out and Ut
a cigarette. The others followed.
Outside the car, Adam shivered slightly. The air was briskly cool, fall
leaves were blowing in a gusty wind, and the sun, which had been out
earlier, had disappeared behind an overcast of gray nimbostratus. Through
trees, he could see a lake, its surface ruffled bleakly.
Adam pondered the decision he had to make. He was aware it was a tough one
for which he would be blamed-justly or unjustly-if it went wrong.
Ian Jameson broke the uncomfortable silence. 'We're satisfied that the
effect is induced by tire and road surfaces when one or the other becomes
in phase with body harmonics, so the vibration is natural body frequency."
In other words, Adam realized, there was no structural defect in the car.
He asked, "Can the vibration be overcome?"
"Yes," Jameson said. 'We're sure of that, also that you can go one of two
ways. Either redesign the cowl side structure and underbody torque
boxes"-he filled in engineering detailsor add by-aces and reinforcement."
"Hey!" Brett was instantly alert. "That first one means exterior body
changes. Right?"
"Right," the engineer acknowledged. "They'd
wheels 109
be needed at the lower body side near the front door cut and rocker panel
areas."
Brett looked gloomy, as well he might, Adam thought. It would require a
crash redesign and testing program at a time when everyone believed the
Orion design was fixed and final. He queried, "And the add-ons?"
"We've experimented, and there'd be two pieces-a front floor reinforcement
and a brace under the instrument panel." The engineer described the brace
which would be out of sight, extending from the cowl side structure on one
side, to the steering column, thence to the cowl on the opposite side.
Adam asked the critical question. "Cost?"
"You won't like it." The engineer hesitated, knowing the reaction his next
words would produce. "About five dollars."
Adam groaned. "God Almighty I"
He was faced with a frustrating choice. Whichever route they went would
be negative and costly. The engineer's first alternative-redesign -would
be less expensive, costing probably half a million to a million dollars
in retooling. But it would create delays, and the Orion's introduction
would be put off three to six months which, in itself, could be disastrous
for many reasons.
On the other hand, on a million cars, cost of the two add-ons-the floor
reinforcement and brace-would be five million dollars, and it was expected
that many more Orions than a million would be built and sold. Millions of
dollars to be added to production expense, to say nothing of lost profit,
and all for an item wholly negativel In auto construction, five dollars
was a major sum, and auto manufacturers thought normally in pennies,
shaving two cents here, a nickel there, necessary because of the immense
total numbers involved. Adam said in deep disgust, "Goddaml"
11 0-wheels
He glanced at Brett. The designer said, "I guess it isn't funny."
Adam's outburst in the car was not the first clash they had had since the
Orion project started. Sometimes it had been Brett who flared up. But
through everything so far they had managed to remain friends. It was as
well, because there was a new project ahead of them, at the moment
codenamed Farstar.
Ian Jameson announced, "If you want to drive over to the lab, we've a car
with the add-ons for you to see."
Adam nodded sourly. "Let's get on with it."
Brett DeLosanto looked upward incredulously. "You mean that hunk of scrap,
and the other, 'll cost five bucks I"
He was staring at a steel strip running across the underside of an Orion,
and secured by bolts.
Adam Trenton, Brett, and Ian Jameson were inspecting the proposed floor
reinforcement from an inspection area beneath a dynamometer, so that the
whole of the car's underside was open to their view. The dynamometer, an
affair of metal plates, rollers, and instrumentation, with a vague
resemblance to a monstrous service station hoist, allowed a car to be
operated as if on the road, while viewed from any angle.
They had already inspected, while above, the other cowl-to-steering
column-to-cowl brace.
Jameson conceded, "Possibly you could save a few cents from cost, but no
more, after allowing for material, machining, then bolt fittings and
installation labor."
The engineer's manner, a kind of pedantic detachment as if cost and
economics were really none of his concern, continued to irritate Adam, who
asked, "How much is Engineering protecting itself? Do we really need all
that?"
wheels-1 11
It was a perennial question from a product planner to an engineer. The
product men regularly accused engineers of building in, everywhere,
greater strength margins than necessary, thus adding to an automobile's
cost and weight while diminishing performance. Product Planning was apt
to argue: If you let the Iron Rings have their way, every car would have
the strength of Brooklyn Bridge, ride like an armored truck, and last
as long as Stonehenge. Taking an adversary view, engineers declaimed:
Sure, we allow margins because if something fails we're the ones who
take the rap. It product planners did their own engineering, they'd
achieve light weight-most likely with a balsawood chassis and tinfoil
for the engine block.
"There's no engineering protection there." It was Jameson's turn to be
huffy. "We've reduced the NVH to what we believe is an acceptable level.
If we went a more complicated route-which would cost more-we could
probably take it out entirely. So far we haven't.11
Adam said noncommittally, 'We'll see what this does."
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