Brett sighed. 'That's what I'm afraid of."
But even if it happened, he thought, he would be his own man, would speak with an independent voice. That was what he wanted most, and so did Barbara. Brett glanced at her with a love which seemed to increase day by day. Whatever unknown quantities were coming, he knew that they would share them.
"There were rumors," Barbara said to Adam, "that you might leave the company too."
"Where did you hear that?"
"Oh, around."
Adam thought: It was hard to keep any secret in Detroit. He supposed Perce Stuyvesant, or someone close to him, had talked.
Barbara pressed him. "Well, are you leaving?"
"An offer was made to me," Adam said. "I thought about it seriously for a while. I decided against it."
He had telephoned Perce Stuyvesant a day or two ago and explained: There would be no point in going to San Francisco to speak of terms and details; Adam was an automobile man and would remain one.
As Adam saw it, a good deal was wrong with the auto industry, but there was a great deal more that, overwhelmingly, was right. The miracle of the modern automobile was not that it sometimes failed, but that it mostly didn't; not that it was costly, but that - for the marvels of design and engineering it embodied - it cost so little; not that it cluttered highways and polluted air, but that it gave free men and women what, through history, they had mostly craved - a personal mobility.
Nor, for an executive to spend his working life, was there any more exciting milieu.
"All of us see things in different ways," Adam told Barbara. "I guess you could say I voted for Detroit."
Soon afterward they said goodnight.
On the short drive from Maple and Telegraph to Quarton Lake, Adam said,
"You didn't say much tonight."
"I was listening," Erica answered. "And thinking. Besides, I wanted you to myself, to tell you something."
"Tell me now."
"Well, it rather looks as if I'm pregnant. Look out! Don't swerve like that!"
"Just be glad," he said, as he pulled into a driveway, "you didn't tell me on the Lodge at rush hour."
"Whose driveway is this?"
"Who the hell cares?" He put out his arms, held her, and kissed her tenderly.
Erica was half laughing, half crying. "You were such a tiger in Nassau.
It must have happened there."
He whispered, "I'm glad I was," then thought: It could be the very best thing for them both.
Later, when they were driving again, Erica said, "I've been wondering how Greg and Kirk will feel. You've two grown sons, then suddenly a baby in the family."
"They'll love it. Because they love you. Just as I do." He reached for her hand. "I'll phone and tell them tomorrow."
"Well," she said, "between us we seem to be creating things."
It was true, he thought happily. And his life was full.
Tonight he had Erica, and this.
Tomorrow, and in days beyond, there would be Farstar.
About the Author
Born In Luton, England, in 1920, Arthur Hailey was educated in English schools until age 14. He joined the British Royal Air Force in 1939 and served as a pilot and flight lieutenant during World War II and in the Middle and Far East. In 1947 Mr. Hailey emigrated to Canada, where he was a real estate salesman, a business paper editor, and then a sales and advertising executive. In 1956 he scored his first writing success with a TV drama, "Flight Into Danger," which was subsequently a movie and a novel, RUNWAY ZERO-EIGHT.
Mr. Hailey, one of the great storytellers of our time, has millions of devoted readers, and his novels are published in every major language. His sensational bestsellers include HOTEL, AIRPORT, THE FINAL DIAGNOSIS, IN HIGH PLACES - and his newest one, WHEELS.
Mr. Hailey lives in the Bahamas with his wife Sheila and their teen-age children: Jane, Steven, and Diane. Arthur Hailey cherishes his family privacy, avoiding publicity except - as he puts it - "when a new book comes out, and my publishers insist I do my duty."