“That will mean an additional net profit to us of better than two million dollars this year,” Dan said enthusiastically. “In three years we should be able to bring that up to fifteen million.”
Loren nodded. “It means you will have to go over there next month to fine-print it. I also promised them a complete engineering team to train their own personnel.”
“No problem,” Dan said. He rubbed his hands together. “That will make good news for the board meeting this afternoon. So far, all they’ve been getting is approvals for appropriations. The money is beginning to fly out like a moon probe.”
“The board doesn’t seem to be concerned about it,” Loren said.
Dan nodded. He knew what Loren meant. The new directors representing the banking and underwriting houses who had given them the advance funding went along with every suggestion Number One made.
“Strange,” Loren continued in an almost puzzled voice, “here we make the money but all they care about is a new car, which at best is a risky gamble. Do you know, even in Europe, that was what most of them wanted to talk about. The new car. It seems they all want to get into that.”
“What do you say to them?” Dan asked.
“I look mysterious and tell them I will talk to them at the right time. It would look damn silly if I were to tell them the truth. That I really don’t know any more than they do.” He paused for a moment. “By the way, what is happening?”
“He’s completed the modifications on the three racing cars,” Dan said. “But that was weeks ago. I haven’t heard anything since.”
“And the new car?”
“Not a word,” Dan said. “Maybe we’ll hear something at today’s meeting. We’re being asked to approve the removal of the auto design and engineering department to the Coast.”
“When does he want to do that?”
“Next month. He says the new plant will be ready for them at that time.”
“Will my grandfather be at the meeting?”
“He’s expected. He always shows up when there’s something on the new car.”
A voice from the doorway interrupted them. “May I come in, Daddy?”
Loren looked up. His face, which had been serious, relaxed. “Of course, Betsy.”
She came into the room and leaned over her father’s chair and kissed his cheek. “Did you have a good trip?”
Loren nodded. She turned to Dan. “Good morning, Mr. Weyman.”
She turned back to her father without waiting for Dan’s reply. There was a curiously reproachful tone in her voice. “You didn’t tell me we’re coming out with a Sundancer Super Sport.”
Loren was puzzled. “A what?”
“A supercar. You know, a hot one.”
Loren looked at Dan. They didn’t speak.
“You don’t have to go all mysterious on me,” she said. “After all, I’m in the family. I never would have said anything to anyone.”
The two men still didn’t speak.
Betsy reached across the table and poured a cup of coffee. She started back for the door, the cup in her hand. “Okay, don’t say anything if you don’t want to. But I saw one on Woodward Avenue last night. And you know what, Daddy?”
Loren shook his head.
She smiled proudly. “It ran the wheels off everything in sight!”
Chapter Two
Loren looked down at the report. “Are you sure about these figures?”
Bancroft nodded his head vigorously. “Cost accounting checked them out. Dan says we can’t miss. I have firm orders for three thousand cars. That’s two million net profit for us first crack out of the box. The dealers are panting for it.”
“Word gets around quickly in this business,” Loren said.
“The car’s been on Woodward Avenue every night for the past three weeks. By now every dragger in the country is anxious to get his hands on one.”
“What does Angelo say?”
“He says he didn’t build them for the market. They’re test cars. Nothing else.” Bancroft took a deep breath. “But, Jesus, it’s the first time in ten years that the dealers are calling us instead of me begging them. Even Mr. Sparks at Super Car Mart in Chicago called me. He’s willing to put them on the lot with ninety miles run on them so he doesn’t blow his Dodge franchise. That’s how hot the car is.”
“I’d like to see one,” Loren said. “All I’ve seen is the designs so far.”
“That’s easy,” Bancroft said. “One’s at the test track right now on its way to fifty thousand miles.”
Loren got to his feet. “Let’s go.” He pressed the button down on his intercom. “Call Dan Weyman,” he told his secretary, “and tell him we’re all going out to the test track.”
It was a gray day with high clouds and occasional gusty bursts of wind and rain. The test track was out past the Willow Run Airport, southwest of the city, and it took them forty-five minutes to get there on the Industrial Expressway. They came off the highway and drove five minutes up a winding back road, finally coming to a stop in front of a wire cyclone fence behind which a tightly cropped cypress hedge obscured everything beyond it.
The security guard came out of his little booth in front of the gate. Another security guard watched them curiously from his booth inside.
Loren looked at him as he approached their car. He wasn’t wearing the conventional gray uniform of their security force. Instead he wore the dark blue and Sam Browne belt of the Burns agency. “Gentlemen?” he asked in a pleasant voice.
Bancroft rolled down his window and leaned out from the driver’s seat. “I’m Mr. Bancroft. This is Mr. Hardeman and Mr. Weyman.”
The guard nodded politely. “How do you do, gentlemen?” He didn’t move.
Bancroft looked at him irritably. “Well, don’t just stand there, man. Let us in.”
The guard stared back at him unperturbed. “Do you have a pass?”
Bancroft jumped over his usually low boiling point. “What the hell do we need a pass for?” he shouted. “Mr. Hardeman is the president of the company and we’re vice-presidents!”
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” the guard said in an unruffled voice. “I don’t care if you’re God, Jesus Christ and Moses, you don’t get in here without a pass signed by either Mr. Perino or Mr. Duncan. That’s my orders.” He started back toward his booth.
Loren got out of the car. “Guard,” he called.
The guard turned back to him. “Yes, sir?”
“Are either Mr. Perino or Mr. Duncan here?”
The guard nodded. “Mr. Duncan is.”
“Would you be kind enough to call him and tell him that we’re out here and would like to come in?” Loren’s voice was pleasant but in the tone of command.
The guard studied him for a moment, then nodded. Without speaking he went back into the booth and picked up a phone. He spoke into it and then put it down. He didn’t come out of the booth again, just stood there watching them through the glass window.
Loren reached for a cigarette and lit it. Bancroft and Dan came out of the car and stood there with him. “How come we’re using Burns out here instead of our own security people?” he asked Dan.
“Angelo doesn’t trust them,” Dan replied. “He said he remembered when he was testing the air-cooled six-cylinder for us that Chevy had the plans almost before we did.”
“Angelo doesn’t trust anybody outside of engineers, mechanics and drivers,” Bancroft added. He looked up. “Where the hell is Duncan?”
He walked over to the booth. “Did you speak to him?” he asked the guard.
“No, sir,” the guard replied. “He was in the car with the driver. But they said they would get the message to him.”
“Oh, Jesus!” Bancroft pulled a cigar from his pocket, stuck it in his mouth and, chewing it without lighting it, walked back to them.
It began to drizzle and they got into the car and sat there silently. Ten minutes passed before a car came down the road inside the gate and John Duncan got out. He s
ignaled to the inside guard and the gate swung open. He walked over to their car.
“I’m sorry about the delay,” he apologized. “But we didn’t expect you.”
“Quite all right, John,” Loren said. “I’ve heard so much about the car, I decided at the last minute to run out and see it.”
Duncan smiled. “I’m glad you could come. Follow me.”
They followed him down the road to the driving grounds. He pulled his car into a parking slot and they stopped beside him. They got out.
“We’ll go down to the garage,” he said. “We can keep dry there.”
They followed him through the slight drizzle to the garage, located just inside the driving oval. A few men were sitting at a table, playing cards, and a girl was curled up on a couch reading a paperback book.
“The men are mechanics,” Duncan explained. “The girl is one of our test drivers.”
Bancroft eyed the girl appreciatively. “I knew Angelo would find a better way to do things.”
Duncan’s voice was flat. “Women do fifty percent of the driving and very few cars are bought without their approval. Angelo’s idea is to get their point of view.”
“That girl makes points of her own,” Bancroft said.
“She’s a first-rate driver,” Duncan replied.
“Where’s the car?” Loren asked.
Duncan walked over to the electronic tracker and pressed a button. The tape-activated lights flashed on. “Just going through checkpoint three at the far end of the test track.” He pressed another button. Numbers began to flash on the reading screen. “It’s going through the tight turn at seventy-one point six two seven mph.” The numbers began to drop rapidly. “It’s down to fifty-two, now forty-seven point two three eight going into the corkscrew.”
He turned to them. “Watch the screen. When it comes out of there into the straight, it should get up to one-sixty by the time it passes here.”
They watched the reading screen in fascination. Suddenly the numbers began to jump up rapidly. In a matter of seconds it seemed that they had gone over 140 and were still climbing. In the distance they could begin to hear the faint roar of the engine.
The engine roar grew louder and they moved toward the garage door better to see outside. In the distance the white headlight beams sparkled through the drizzle. Almost before they realized it, the beams turned into white blinding glare and the car flew by them, trailing the light like a wraithlike gray shadow, and disappeared down the track.
“A hundred and sixty-eight point seven one five,” Duncan’s voice came from the tracker.
“How fast will it go?” Loren asked, walking back to him.
“We’ve had it up to one-ninety-one,” Duncan said. “But the track is wet and I told them not to take it over one-sixty-five.”
“How many miles have you logged?”
“Thirty-eight thousand. At forty we pull it in, service it and send it out again.”
“Is the engine holding up?” Loren asked.
“Real good. Only normal changes despite the fact we have it souped up. Better than I thought. All the sensor readings are solid.”
“I’d like to see the car,” said Loren.
“I’ll call it in,” Duncan said. He pressed another button on the panel. A yellow light on a turret outside the garage glowed into life and began to whirl, throwing golden shadows into the windows. He leaned over the microphone built into the panel. “Duncan to Peerless, Duncan to Peerless. Over.”
There was a slight rasp of static. “Peerless to Duncan. I read you. Over.”
“Cool her off and bring her in. Over.”
“Anything wrong?” The driver’s voice seemed annoyed. “It looks good out here. Over.”
“Nothing wrong,” Duncan said. “Just bring her in. Over and out.”
“Roger. Over and out.” There was a click and the speaker went off.
Duncan hit another button and the tracking screen went to black. He walked toward the garage door. They followed him just as the car went by. It was already slowing down. “He’ll come in on the next lap,” Duncan explained.
Loren gestured to the tracking console. “I didn’t know we had one of those.”
“It’s Angelo’s idea,” Duncan said. “He got it from watching the space launch and had it built for us by Rourke’s people on the Coast. It turned out to be so good that we’re building them now for GM, Ford and Chrysler, and we have orders coming in from all over the world.”
The car pulled in just as the rain stopped. They walked out toward it.
Loren studied the car. It was the standard two-door Sundancer hardtop. There was no doubt about that. But there were subtle differences. The hood sloped slightly down toward the headlights and the almost square rear window had been softened and rounded, molding gently down to the spoiler mounted over the trunk, giving the car a definite European look.
The driver got out. He moved stiffly in his fireproof coveralls, flipping the chin-strap of his crash helmet open as he came toward them. “Okay,” he said belligerently. “What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing,” Duncan said. “Mr. Hardeman here just wanted to look at it.”
The driver let out a sigh of relief. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Mind if I grab a cup of coffee then?”
Duncan shook his head. The driver walked into the garage.
Loren looked into the car. The dash was cluttered with all kinds of instrumentation. He looked back at Duncan. “What did you do to the car?”
Duncan moved up next to him. “The special instruments you see there all have built-in sensors which transmit readings to our control panel. We’ve put two four-barreled wide-scoop Webers, a new manifold and opened up the bore on the cylinders which gives us an eleven-to-one compression ratio and puts out up to three hundred and forty horse. The body is fiber glass draped on a steel wire net suspended from front and rear roll bars to a tubular chassis on an impact-absorbing suspension principle.”
“Exactly what does that mean?” Loren asked.
“The harder you hit, the more it resists the impact,” Duncan replied. “The same principle as the suspension bridge, the more weight, the stronger it holds. Combines safety with lightness and economy. This car weighs six hundred and seventy pounds less than the standard Sundancer with the same equipment, and the body shell costs forty percent less to fabricate.” Duncan took out a cigarette and lit it. “Of course the car would be lighter still but we had to beef up the axle and the driveshaft to take the power.”
“How does it ride?” Loren asked.
Duncan looked at him. “Why don’t you take a spin around the track and see for yourself?”
Loren looked around the table. The board meeting was almost over and it had gone quietly, in almost routine fashion. There had been a great deal of satisfaction expressed over the West German deal and he felt bathed in a glow of commendation. Even Number One, sitting in his wheelchair at the foot of the table, had been thoroughly impressed.
The last item on the agenda was now before the board. Approval to move Design and Engineering to the Coast. Loren turned the page.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “You all have item number twenty-one on the table before you, and before we move on that item, I would like to say a few words.”
He waited for their silent assent before continuing. “First, I think the directors should commend Mr. Perino for a fantastic job done with the experimental cars. As you already know, he has converted three standard Sundancer hardtops into high-performance machines. What you may not know, because he has not mentioned it, perhaps due to his own modesty, is that he has come up with one of the most exciting cars Bethlehem has ever had the good fortune to produce. And I know whereof I speak, gentlemen, for this morning I had the pleasure to ride in one. My congratulations to Mr. Perino.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hardeman.” Angelo’s voice was polite but noncommittal.
Loren waited for the murmur that spread around the table to die down. “Per
haps none of us present realized the potential of this car. Oddly enough it came to my attention this morning through my young daughter, who saw one of the cars dragging on Woodward Avenue the other night and in her words, it ‘ran the wheels off everything in sight!’”
He waited again for the pleased murmur to die away. “The other bit of interesting news comes from Mr. Bancroft. He informs me that he is besieged by dealers who want to take immediate shipment on the car, that he already has firm orders for three thousand, which incidentally brings us two million dollars in additional net profits, and he feels that he can without effort sell ten thousand of this particular model in the current model year.”
There was a general smiling air around the table. Loren followed through. “Therefore I propose that we add to the agenda, together with the item on the table, approval from this board to begin immediate production on the Sundancer SS and take advantage of this particularly high interest.”
There was an almost immediate nodding of heads. “Just a minute, gentlemen.” Angelo’s voice was still noncommittal. “I do not think we should market these cars.”
The directors looked puzzled. One of them, president of a Detroit bank, questioned him. “Why not, Mr. Perino? I know that the supercar market has been a very lucrative one for Dodge, Chevy and American Motors.”
Angelo looked at him without expression. “There are several reasons. One, the test car, as is, cannot be marketed because it exceeds emission levels. Conforming to these levels would result in a considerable loss of power so that performance would not reach the heights of the test car.”
Weyman spoke up. “Would the car fall below what we commonly understand are supercar standards?”
“There are no standards for supercars, Mr. Weyman,” Angelo said dryly. “In answer to your question, I say yes and no. Yes, it will have higher performance than the standard Sundancer; no, it will not match the performance of the hemi and the Mopar.” He looked down the table at Loren. “But even that is not the important consideration. We are about to undertake to build a new car. A car that will put us back solidly into the automobile industry. A specialized car, a supercar, no matter how attractive it may be, is not the answer to the main issue. The market is a limited one and my own personal feeling is that it will shrink rapidly due to the solid restraints of ecological measures being brought into law. For the sake of a few dollars in profit, gentlemen, I do not think we ought to risk the goodwill of an aware future market that we are targeting.
The Betsy (1971) Page 10