Wheels

Chapter 24

Sir Perceval McDowall Stuyvesant, Bart. and Adam Trenton had known each other and been friends for more than twenty years. It was a loose friendship. Sometimes two years or more slipped by without their meeting, or even communicating, but whenever they were in the same town, which happened occasionally, they got together and picked up the old relationship easily, as if it had never been set down.

A reason, perhaps, for the lasting friendship was their dissimilarity.

Adam, while imaginative, was primarily a master of organization, a pragmatist who got things done. Sir Perceval, imaginative too and with a growing reputation as a brilliant scientist, was essentially a dreamer who had trouble mastering each day's practicalities - the kind of man who might invent a zipper but subsequently forget to zip up his own fly.

Their backgrounds were equally at variance. Sir Perceval was the last of a line of English squires, his father dead and the inherited title genuine. Adam's father had been a Buffalo, New York, steelworker.

The two met in college - at Purdue University. They were the same age and graduated together, Adam in Engineering; Perceval, whom his friends called Perce, in Physics. Afterward, Perce spent several more years gathering scientific degrees as casually as a child gathers daisies, then worked for a while for the same auto company as Adam. This had been in Scientific Research - the "think tank" - where Perce left his mark by discovering new applications for electron microscopes.

During that period they spent more time together than at any other - it had been before Adam's marriage to Erica, and Perce was a bachelor - and they found each other's company increasingly agreeable.

For a while, Adam became mildly interested in Perce's hobby of manufacturing pseudo-antique violins -into each of which, with peculiar humor, he pasted a Stradivari label - but rejected Perce's suggestion that they learn Russian together. Perce set out on that project alone, solely because someone had given him a subscription to a Soviet magazine, and in less than a year could read Russian with ease.

Sir Perceval Stuyvesant had a lean, spindleshanked appearance and, to Adam, always looked the same: mournful, which he wasn't, and perpetually abstracted, which he was. He also had an easygoing nature which nothing disturbed, and when concentrating on something scientific was oblivious to everything around him, including seven young and noisy children. This brood had appeared at the rate of one a year since Perce's marriage which took place soon after he left the auto industry. He had wed a pleasant, sexy scatterbrain, now Lady Stuyvesant, and for the past few years the expanding family had lived near San Francisco in a happy madhouse of a home.

It was from San Francisco that Perce had flown to Detroit specifically to see Adam. They met in Adam's office in late afternoon of a day in August.

When Perce had telephoned the previous day to say that he was coming, Adam urged him not to go to a hotel, but to come home to stay at Quarton Lake.

Erica liked Perce. Adam hoped that an old friend's arrival would ease some of the tension and uncertainty still persisting between himself and Erica.

But Perce had declined. "Best if I don't, old boy. If I meet Erica this trip, she'll be curious to know why I'm there, and you'll likely want to tell her yourself in your own way."

Adam had asked, "Why are you coming?"

"Maybe I want a job."

But Sir Percival hadn't wanted a job. As it turned out, he had come to offer one to Adam.

A West Coast company, involved with advanced electrical and radar technology, required an executive head. Perce, one of the company's founders, was currently its scientific vice-president, and his approach to Adam was on behalf of himself and associates.

He announced, "President is what we'd make you, old boy. You'd start at the top."

Adam said dryly, "That's what Henry Ford told Bunkie Knudsen."

"This could work out better. One reason you'd be in a strong stock position." Perce gave the slightest of frowns as he regarded Adam. "I'll ask you a favor while I'm here. That's take me seriously."

"I always have." That was one of the things about their relationship, Adam thought - based on respect for each other's abilities, and with good reason. Adam had his own solid achievements in the auto industry and Perce, despite vagueness at times and his absent-mindedness about everyday matters, turned everything he touched in scientific fields into notable success. Even before today's encounter, Adam had heard reports about Perce's West Coast company which had gained a solid reputation for advanced research and development, electronically oriented, in a short time.

"We're a small company," Perce said, "but growing fast, and that's our problem."

He went on, explaining that a group of scientific people like himself had banded together information of the company, their objective to convert new, advanced knowledge with which the sciences abounded, into practical inventions and technology. A special concern was freshly emerging energy sources and power transmission. Not only would developments envisaged bring aid to beleaguered cities and industry, they would also augment the world's food supply by massive, powered irrigation. Already the group had scored successes in several fields so that the company was, as Perce expressed it, "earning bread and butter and some jam," Much more was expected.

"A good deal of our work is focusing on superconductors," Perce reported. He asked Adam, "Know much about that?"

"A little, not much."

"If there's a major breakthrough - and some of us believe it can happen - it'll be the most revolutionary power and metallurgical development in a generation. I'll tell you more of that later, it could be our biggest thing."

At the moment, Perce declared, what the company needed was a top-flight businessman to run it. "We're scientists, old boy. If I may say so, we've as many science geniuses as you'll find under one umbrella in this country. But we're having to do things we don't want to and are not equipped for - organization, management, budgets, financing, the rest.

What we want is to stay in our labs, experiment, and think."

But the group didn't want just any businessman, Perce declared. "We can get accountants by the gross and management consultants in a dump truck.

What we need is one outstanding individual - someone with imagination who understands and respects research, can utilize technology, channel invention, establish priorities, run the front office while we take care of the back, and still be a decent human being. In short, old boy, we need you."

It was impossible not to be pleased. Being offered a job by an outside company was no new experience for Adam, any more than it was to most auto executives. But the offer from Perce, because of who and what he was, was something different.

Adam asked, "How do your other people feel?"

"They've learned to trust my judgment. I may tell you that in considering candidates we made a short list. Very short. Yours was the only name on it."

Adam said, and meant it, "I'm touched."

Sir Perceval Stuyvesant permitted himself one of his rare, slow smiles.

"You might even be touched in other ways. When you wish, we can talk salary, bonus, stock position, options."

Adam shook his head. "Not yet, if at all. The thing is, I've never seriously considered leaving the auto business. Cars have been my life.

They still are."

Even now, to Adam, this entire exchange was mere dialectics. Greatly as he respected Perce and strong as their friendship was, for Adam to quit the auto industry voluntarily was inconceivable.

The two were in facing chairs. Perce shifted in his. He had a way of winding and unwinding while seated which made his long, lean figure seem sinuous. Each movement, too, signaled a switch in conversation.

"Ever wonder," Perce said, "what they'll put on your tombstone?"

"I'm not at all sure I'll have one."

Perce waved a hand. "I speak metaphorically, old boy. We'll all get a tombstone, whether in stone or air. It'll have on it what we did with the time we had, what we've left behind us. Ever thought of yours?"

"I suppose so," Adam said. "I guess we all do a little."

Perce put his fingertips together and regarded them. "Several things they could say about you, I suppose. For example: 'He was an auto company vice-president' or even maybe 'president' - that's if your luck holds and you beat out all the other strong contenders. You'd be in good company, of course, even though a lot of company. So many auto presidents and vice-presidents, old boy. Bit like the population of India."

"If you're making a point," Adam said, "why not get to it?"

"A splendid suggestion, old boy."

Sometimes, Adam thought, Perce overdid the studied Anglicisms. They had to be studied because, British baronet or not, Perce had lived in the U.S. for a quarter century and, with the exception of speech, all his tastes and habits were American. But perhaps it showed that everyone had human weaknesses.

Now Perce leaned forward, eying Adam earnestly. "You know what that tombstone of yours might say: 'He did something new, different, worthwhile. He was a leader when they carved new pathways, broke fresh ground. That which he left behind him was important and enduring."'

Perce fell back in his chair as if the amount of talk - unusual in his case - and emotional effort had exhausted him.

Amid the silence which followed, Adam felt more moved than at any other point since the conversation began. In his mind he acknowledged the truth of what Perce had said, and wondered, too, how long the Orion would be remembered after its time and usefulness were ended. Farstar also. Both seemed important now, dominating the lives of many, including his own. But how important would they seem in time to come?

The office suite was quiet. It was late afternoon, and here as elsewhere within the staff building, pressures of the day were easing, secretaries and others beginning to go home. From where Adam sat, glancing outside he could see the freeway traffic, its volume growing as the exodus from plants and offices began.

He had chosen this time of day because Perce had asked particularly that they have at least an hour in which they would be undisturbed.

"Tell me some more," Adam said, "about super-conductors - the breakthrough you were speaking of."

Perce said quietly, "They represent the means to enormous new energy, a chance to clean up our environment, and to create more abundance than this earth has ever known."

Across the office, on Adam's desk, a telephone buzzed peremptorily.

Adam glanced toward it with annoyance. Before Perce's arrival he had given Ursula, his secretary, instructions not to disturb them. Perce seemed unhappy about the interruption, too.

But Ursula, Adam knew, would not disregard instructions without good reason. Excusing himself, he crossed the room, sat at his desk and lifted the phone.

"I wouldn't have called you," his secretary's low-pitched voice announced,

"except Mr. Stephensen said he has to speak to you, it's extremely urgent"

"Smokey Stephensen?"

"Yes, sir."

Adam said irritably, "Get a number where he'll be later this evening. If I can, I'll call him. But I can't talk now."

He sensed Ursula's uncertainty. "Mr. Trenton, that's exactly what I said.

But he's most insistent. He says when you know what it's about, you won't mind him interrupting."

"Damn!" Adam glanced apologetically at Perce, then asked Ursula, "He's on the line now?"

"Yes."

"Very well, put him on."

Cupping a hand over the telephone, Adam promised, "This will take one minute, no more." The trouble with people like Smokey Stephensen, he thought, was that they always considered their own affairs to have overriding importance.

A click. The auto dealer's voice. "Adam, that you?"

"Yes, it is." Adam made no attempt to conceal his displeasure. "I understand my secretary has already told you I'm busy. Whatever it is will have to wait."

"Shall I tell that to your wife?"

He answered peevishly, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, Mr. Big Executive too busy to take a phone call from a friend, your wife has been arrested. And not on a traffic charge, in case you're wondering. For stealing."

Adam stopped, in shocked silence, as Smokey went on. "If you want to help her, and help yourself, right now get free from whatever you're involved in and come to where I'm waiting. Listen carefully. I'll tell you where to go."

Dazedly, Adam wrote down the directions Smokey gave him.

"We need a lawyer," Adam said. "I know several. I'm going to phone one, get him over here."

He was with Smokey Stephensen, in Smokey's car, on the parking lot of the suburban police station. Adam had not yet been inside, Smokey had persuaded him to remain in the car while he recited the facts concerning Erica, which he had learned on the telephone from Chief Arenson, and during a visit to the chief's office before Adam's arrival. As Adam listened he had grown increasingly tense, his frown of worry deepening.

"Sure, sure," Smokey said. "Go phone a lawyer. While you're about it, why not call the News, Free Press and Birmingham Eccentric? They might even send photographers."

"What does it matter? Obviously, the police have made a stupid mistake."

"They ain't made a mistake."

"My wife would never . . ."

Smokey cut in exasperatedly, "Your wife did. Will you get that through your head? And not only did, she's signed a confession."

"I can't believe it."

"You'd better. Chief Arenson told me; he wouldn't lie. Besides, the police aren't fools."

"No," Adam said, I know they're not." He took in a deep breath and expelled it slowly, forcing himself to think carefully - for the first time since hastily breaking off the meeting with Perceval Stuyvesant half an hour ago. Perce had been understanding, realizing that something serious had occurred, even though Adam hadn't gone into detail about the sudden phone call. They had arranged that Adam would call Perce at his hotel, either later tonight or tomorrow morning.

Now, beside Adam, Smokey Stephensen waited, puffing on a cigar, so the car reeked of smoke despite its air conditioning. Outside, the rain continued drearily, as it had since afternoon. Dusk was settling in. On vehicles and in buildings lights were coming on.

"All right," Adam said, "if Erica did what they say, there has to be something else behind it."

Out of habit, the auto dealer rubbed a hand over his beard. His greeting to Adam on arrival had been neither friendly nor hostile, and his voice was noncommittal now. "Whatever that is, I guess it's between you and your wife. The same goes for what's right or wrong; neither one's any business of mine. What we're talking about is the way things are."

A police cruiser pulled in close to where they were parked. Two uniformed officers got out, escorting a third man between them. The policemen took a hard look at Smokey Stephensen's car and its two occupants; the third man, whom Adam now saw was handcuffed, kept his eyes averted. While Smokey and Adam watched, the trio went inside.

It was an uncomfortable reminder of the kind of business transacted here.

"The way things are," Adam said, "Erica's inside there - or so you tell me - and needs help. I can either barge in myself, start throwing weight around and maybe make mistakes, or I can do the sensible thing and get a lawyer."

"Sensible or not," Smokey growled, "you'll likely start something you can't stop, and afterwards wish you'd done it some other way."

"What other way?"

"Like letting me go in there to begin. To represent you. Like my talking to the chief again. Like seeing what I can work out."

Wondering why he had not asked before, Adam queried, "Why did the police call you?"

"The chief knows me," Smokey said. "We're friends. He knows I know you."

He forbore to tell Adam what he had already learned - that chances were good the store where the shoplifting had occurred would settle for payment of what had been taken and would not press charges; also, that Chief Arenson was aware the case might be sensitive locally, and therefore a favorable disposition might be arranged, depending on the co-operation and discretion of all concerned.

"I'm out of my depth," Adam said. "If you think you can do something, go ahead. Do you want me to come with you?"

Smokey sat still. His hands were on the car's steering wheel, his face expressionless.

"Well," Adam said, "can you do something or not?"

"Yes," Smokey acknowledged, "I guess I could."

"Then what are we waiting for?"

"The price," Smokey said softly. "There's a price for everything, Adam. You, of all people, should know that."

"If we're discussing bribery"

"Don't even mention bribery! Here or in there." Smokey gestured toward police headquarters. "And remember this: Wilbur Arenson's a reasonable guy. But if you offered him anything, he'd throw the book at your wife.

You, too."

"I didn't intend to." Adam looked puzzled. "If it isn't that, then what . . ."

"You son-of-a-bitch!" Smokey shouted the words; his hands, gripping the steering wheel, were white. "You're putting me out of business, remember?

Or is it so unimportant you've forgotten? One month, you said. One month before your sister puts her stock in my business on the block. A month before you turn that sneak's notebook of yours over to your company sales brass."

Adam said stiffly, "We have an agreement. It has nothing to do with this."

"You're damn right it has to do with this! If you want your wife out of this mess without her name, and yours, smeared all over Michigan, you'd best do some fast rethinking."

"It might be better if you explained what kind."

"I'm offering a deal," Smokey said. "If it needs explaining, you're not half as smart as I think."

Adam allowed the contempt he felt to express itself in his voice. "I suppose I get the picture. Let me see if I have it right. You are prepared to be an intermediary, using your friendship with the chief of police to try to free my wife and have any charges dropped. In return, I'm supposed to tell my sister not to dispose of her investment in your business and then ignore what I know about dishonesty in the way you run it."

Smokey growled. "You're pretty free with that word dishonesty. Maybe you should remember you got some in the family."

Adam ignored the remark. "Do I, or do I not, have the proposition right?"

"You're smart after all. You got it right."

"Then the answer's no. Under no circumstances would I change the advice I intend to give my sister. I'd not be using her interests to help myself."

Smokey said quickly, "That means, then, you might consider the part about the company."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't not say it either."

Adam was silent. Within the car the only sounds were a purr from the idling motor and the air-conditioning hum.

Smokey said, "I'll take the half of the deal. Never mind Teresa. I'll settle for you not shitting in the company." He paused, then expanded, "I'll. not even ask for that black notebook of yours. Just that you don't use it."

Still Adam failed to answer.

"You might say," Smokey said, "you're choosing between the company and your wife. It's interesting to see who you put first."

Bitterly, Adam answered, "You know I've no choice."

He was aware that Smokey had tricked him, as had happened the day of that encounter in the dealership when Smokey demanded twice as much as he needed, then settled for what he had wanted to stay with. It was a hoary dealer's gambit, then as now.

But this time, Adam reminded himself, Erica had to be thought of. There was no other way.

Or was there? Even at this moment he was tempted to dispense with Smokey's help, to go to the police alone, learn what he could of what still seemed an unreal situation, then discover what, if anything, could be arranged. But it was a risk. The fact was: Smokey did know Chief Arenson, and equally obvious was that Smokey knew his way around this kind of situation, which Adam did not. When Adam had said a few minutes ago, "I'm out of my depth," it was true.

But he knew he had acted against his own moral principles and had compromised with conscience, either for Erica's sake or not. He suspected gloomily it would not be the last time, and that personally, as well as in his work, he would make more compromises as time went on.

Smokey, for his part, was concealing a bubbling cheerfulness within.

On the day, only a short time ago, when Adam had threatened to expose him and Smokey won a month's reprieve, he had been convinced something would turn up. He had remained convinced. Now, it seemed, he had been right.

"Adam," Smokey said. He stubbed out his cigar, trying hard not to laugh. "Let's go get your missus out of the pokey."

Formalities were honored, the rituals observed.

In Adam's presence, Chief Arenson lectured Erica sternly. "Mrs.Trenton, if ever this happens again, the full force of the law will be applied. Do you clearly understand that?"

Erica's lips formed a barely audible, "Yes.".

She and Adam were in separate chairs, facing the chief who was behind his desk. Despite the sternness, Chief Arenson appeared more like a hanker than a policeman. Being seated emphasized his shortness; an overhead light beamed on his balding head.

No one else was in the room. Smokey Stephensen, who had arranged this meeting and its outcome, was waiting in the corridor outside.

Adam had been here with the chief when Erica was brought in, escorted by a policewoman.

Adam went toward Erica, his arms outstretched. She seemed surprised to see him. "I didn't tell them to call you, Adam. I didn't want you involved."

Her voice was strained and nervous.

He said, as he held her, "That's what a husband's for, isn't it?"

At a nod from the chief, the policewoman left. After a moment, at the chief's suggestion, they all sat down.

"Mr. Trenton, in case you should have the idea there has been any misunderstanding in this matter, I believe you should read this." Chief Arenson passed a paper across his desk to Adam. It was a photocopy of Erica's signed statement in which she admitted guilt.

The chief waited while Adam read it, then asked Erica, "In your husband's presence, Mrs. Trenton, I now ask you: Were you offered any inducement to make that statement, or was any force or coercion of any kind employed?"

Erica shook her head.

"You are saying, then, that the statement was entirely voluntary?"

"Yes." Erica avoided Adam's eyes.

"Do you have any complaint, either about your treatment here or concerning the officers who arrested you?"

Again, Erica shook her head.

"Aloud, please. I want your husband to hear." "No," Erica said. "No, I don't have any complaint."

"Mrs. Trenton," the chief said, "I'd like to ask you one other question.

You don't have to answer, but it would be helpful to me if you did, and perhaps to your husband, too. I also promise that whatever the answer, nothing will happen as a result of it."

Erica waited.

"Have you ever stolen before, Mrs. Trenton? I mean recently, in the same kind of circumstances as today."

Erica hesitated. Then she said softly, "Yes."

"How many times?"

Adam pointed out, "You said one question and she answered it."

Chief Arenson sighed. "All right. Let it go."

Adam was aware of Erica glancing his way gratefully, then wondered if he had been wrong to intercede. Perhaps it might have been better if everything came out, since the chief had already promised immunity. Then Adam thought: The place for more revelations was in private, between himself and Erica.

If Erica chose to tell him. There seemed no certainty she would.

Even now, Adam had no idea how they were going to handle this when he and Erica got home. How did you handle the fact that your wife was a thief?

He had a sudden flash of anger: How could Erica do this to him?

It was then that Chief Arenson delivered his stern lecture to Erica, which she acknowledged.

The chief continued: "In this single special instance, because of your husband's standing in the community and the unfortunate effect which a prosecution would have on both of you, the store concerned has been persuaded not to press charges and I have decided to take no further action."

Adam said, "We know it was your initiative, Chief, and we're grateful."

Chief Arenson inclined his head in acknowledgment. "There are advantages sometimes, Mr. Trenton, in having a local suburban police force instead of a big metropolitan one. I can tell you that if this had occurred downtown, with the city police involved, the outcome would have been very different."

"If ever the question comes up, my wife and I will be among the strongest advocates of keeping a local force."

The chief made no acknowledgment. Politicking, he thought, should not become too obvious, even though it was good to have gained two more supporters of local autonomy. One day, if this man Trenton was going as high as predicted, he might prove a strong ally. The chief liked being a chief. He intended to do all he could to remain one until retirement, not become a precinct captain - as would happen under a metro force - taking orders from downtown.

He nodded, but did not stand - no sense in overdoing things - as the Trentons went out.

Smokey Stephensen was no longer in the corridor, but waiting in his car outside. He got out as Adam and Erica emerged from police headquarters.

It was now dark. The rain had stopped.

While Adam waited as Smokey approached, Erica went on alone to where Adam's car was parked. They had arranged to leave Erica's convertible in the police garage overnight and pick it up tomorrow.

"We owe you some thanks," Adam told Smokey. "My wife doesn't feel up to it now, but she'll tell you herself later." It required an effort to be polite because Adam still resented bitterly the auto dealer's blackmailing tactics. Reason told him, however, that without Smokey on hand he might have fared worse.

Then Adam remembered his anger at Erica inside. Something else she had done, he realized, had been to put him at the mercy of Smokey Stephensen.

Smokey grinned and removed his cigar. "No need for thanks. So long as you keep your side of the bargain."

"It will be kept."

"Just one thing, and maybe you'll tell me it's none of my business, but don't be too hard on your wife."

"You're right," Adam said, "it is none of your business."

The auto dealer went on unperturbed, "People do funny things for funny reasons. Worth a second look sometimes to find out what the reasons really were."

"If I ever need some amateur psychology, I'll call you." Adam turned away. "Goodnight."

Thoughtfully, Smokey watched him go.

They had driven half the way to Quarton Lake.

"You haven't said anything," Erica said. "Aren't you going to?" She was looking straight ahead, and though her voice sounded tired, it had an edge of defiance.

"I can say what I have to in just one word: Why?" While driving, Adam had been struggling to control his indignation and temper. Now, both erupted. "In Gods name! Why?"

"I've been asking myself that."

"Well, ask again and see if you can get some kind of sane answer. I'll be damned if I can."

"You don't have to shout."

"You don't have to steal."

"If we're only going to fight," Erica said, "we won't accomplish much."

"All I'm trying to accomplish is the answer to a simple question."

"The question being: Why?"

"Exactly."

"If you must know," Erica said, "I rather enjoyed doing it. I suppose that shocks you."

"Yes, it shocks me like hell."

She went on, musing aloud, as if explaining to herself. "Of course, I didn't want to get caught, but there was a thrill in knowing I might be.

It made everything exciting and somehow sharper. In a way it was like the feeling you get when you've had one drink too many. Of course, when I was caught, it was awful. Much worse than anything I imagined."

"Well," Adam said, "at least we're making a start."

"If you don't mind, that's all I want to make tonight. I realize you have a lot of questions, and I guess you're entitled to ask them. But could we leave the rest until tomorrow?"

Adam glanced sideways. He saw that Erica had put her head back and her eyes were closed. She looked young and vulnerable and weary. He answered, "Okay."

She said, so softly that he had to strain to hear, "And thank you for coming. It's true what I said - I wasn't going to send for you, but I was glad when you were there."

He reached out and let his hand cover hers.

"You said something" - Erica still spoke dreamily, as if from a distance - "about making a start. If only we could make a whole new start!"

"In what way?"

"In every way." She sighed. "I know we can't."

On impulse, Adam said, "Perhaps we can."

It was strange, he thought, that today of all days Perceval Stuyvesant should have suggested one.

Sir Perceval and Adam were breakfasting together at the Hilton Hotel downtown, where Perce was staying.

Adam had not talked with Erica since their return home last night. She had gone exhausted to bed, fallen asleep immediately and was still sleeping soundly when he left the house early to drive into the city.

He had considered waking her, decided against it, then half way to the breakfast appointment wished he had. He would have gone back, except that Perce had a midmorning flight to New York - the reason they made the arrangement by telephone last night; also, suddenly, Perce's proposition seemed more relevant and important than it had the day before.

One thing Adam had noticed last night was that while Erica went to sleep alone in the guest bedroom, as she had for the past month, she left the door open, and it was still open when he tiptoed in this morning.

He decided now: He would telephone home in another hour. Then, if Erica wanted to talk, he would rearrange his office schedule and go home for part of the morning.

Over their meal, Perce made no reference to the interruption in their talk the previous day; nor did Adam. Briefly Perce inquired about Adam's sons, Greg and Kirk, then they talked about superconductors - the area in which the small scientific company, now offering its presidency to Adam, was hopeful of a breakthrough.

"One extraordinary thing about superconductors, old boy, is that the public and the press know so little of them." Perce sipped his brew of mixed Ceylon and India teas which he carried with him in canisters and had prepared specially wherever he happened to be.

"As you probably know, Adam, a superconductor is a metal or wire which will carry a full load of electricity without any loss whatever."

Adam nodded. Like any eighth-grade physics student, he was aware that all present wires and cables caused at least a fifteen percent loss of power, called resistance.

"So a working superconductor with nil resistance," Perceval said, "would revolutionize the entire world's electric power systems. Among other things it would eliminate complex, expensive transmission equipment and provide fantastic amounts of power at unbelievably low cost. What has held back development until now has been the fact that superconductors would only function at very low temperatures - about 450 degrees below zero Fahrenheit."

Adam said, "That's pretty damned cold."

"Quite so. Which is why, in recent years, a scientific dream has been of a superconductor which will function at room temperature."

"Is it likely to be more than a dream?"

Perce thought before answering. "We've known each other a good many years, old boy. Have you ever known me to exaggerate?"

"No," Adam said. "Very much the reverse. You've always been conservative."

"I still am." Perce smiled and drank more tea, then went on. "Our group has not found a room temperature superconductor, but certain phenomena - the result of experiments we've made - have us excited. We wonder, some days, if we may not be very close."

"And if you are?"

"If we are, if there is a breakthrough, there's not an area of modern technology which won't be affected and improved. Let me give you two examples."

Adam listened with increasing fascination.

"I won't go into all the magnetic field hypotheses, but there's something called a superconducting ring. What it is is a wire which will store electric current in large amounts and hold it intact, and if we make the other breakthrough we'll be on top of this one, too. It'll make feasible the transfer of portable electric power in huge amounts, from place to place, by truck or boat or airplane. Think of its uses in the desert or the jungle - flown there in a package without a generator in sight, and more to follow when needed. And can you imagine another superconducting ring, this time in an electric operated car, making the battery as out of date as rushlight?"

"Since you ask," Adam said, "I have trouble imagining some of that."

Perce reminded him, "Not long ago people had trouble imagining atomic energy and space travel."

True, Adam thought, then pointed out, "You said two examples."

"Yes, I did. One of the interesting things about a superconductor is that it's diamagnetic that's to say, when used in conjunction with more common magnets, immensely large repulsive forces can occur. Do you see the possibilities, old boy? - metals in any kind of machinery nestled close together yet never actually touching. Obviously we'd have frictionless bearings. And you could build a car without metal parts in contact with one another - hence, no wear. Those are just beginning possibilities. Others are endless."

It was impossible not to share some of Perce's conviction. From anyone else, Adam would have taken most of what was being described either as science fiction or a long-range possibility.

But not from Perce Stuyvesant who had a record of good judgment and accomplishment in deeply scientific fields.

"Somewhat fortunately," Perce said, "in the areas I've mentioned, and others, our group has been able to move along without attracting much attention. But there'll be attention soon - lots of it. That's another reason why we need you."

Adam was thinking hard. Perce's report and ideas excited him, though he wondered if the excitement would be as great or as sustained as he had experienced with cars - the Orion and Farstar, for example. Even now, the thought of not being a part of the auto industry was hard to accept. But there had been something in what Perce said yesterday about carving new pathways, breaking fresh ground.

Adam said, "If we do get down to this seriously, I'll want to come to San Francisco and talk with the rest of your people."

"We'd be more than delighted, old man, and I urge you to make it soon."

Perce spread his hands in a deprecating gesture. "Of course, not everything I've described may work out the way we hope, nor is a breakthrough ever a breakthrough until it's happened. But there will be some important, exciting things; that much we know for sure and that I promise you. Remember that line? 'There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood . . .' and so on."

"Yes," Adam said, "I remember."

He was wondering about timing, and a tide, for Erica and himself.