Adam asked Jameson, "You're sure the bracing will stand up to long use?"
"No question about it. We've put it through every test. We're satisfied."
So was Jameson, Adam thought; too damn satisfied. The engineer's detachment - it seemed like complacency - still irritated him. "Doesn't it ever bother you," Adam asked, "that everything you people do here is negative? You don't produce anything. You only take things out, eliminate."
"Oh, we produce something." Jameson pointed to the dynamometer rollers, still turning swiftly, impelled by the Orion's wheels. "See those? They're connected to a generator; so are the other dynamometers in the lab. Every time we operate a car, the rollers generate electricity. We're coupled in to Detroit Edison, and we sell the power to them." He looked challengingly at Adam. "Sometimes I think it's as useful as a few things which have come out of Product Planning."
Adam smiled, conceding. "But not the Orion."
"No," Jameson said. I guess we all have hopes for that."
Chapter 8
The nightgown which Erica Trenton finally bought was in Laidlaw-Beldon's on Somerset Mall in Troy. Earlier, she had browsed through stores in Birmingham without seeing anything that appealed to her as sufficiently special for the purpose she had in mind, so she continued to cruise the district in her sports convertible, not really minding because it was pleasant, for a change, to have something special to do.
Somerset Mall was a large, modern plaza, east on Big Beaver Road, with quality stores, drawing much of their patronage from well-to-do auto industry families living in Birmingham and Bloomfield Hills. Erica had shopped there often and knew her way around most of the stores, including Laidlaw-Beldon's.
She realized, the instant she saw it, that the nightgown was exactly right. It was a sheer nylon with matching peignoir, in pale-beige, almost the color of her hair. The total effect, she knew, would be to project an image of honey blondeness. A frosted orange lipstick, she decided, would round out the sensual impression she intended to create, tonight, for Adam.
Erica had no charge account at the store, and paid by check. Afterward she went to Cosmetics to buy a lipstick since she was uncertain if she had one at home, quite the right shade.
Cosmetics was busy. While waiting, glancing over a display of lipstick colors, Erica became aware of another shopper at the perfume counter close by. It was a woman in her sixties who was informing a salesclerk, "I want it for my daughter-in-law. I'm really not sure . . . Let me try the Norell."
Using a sample vial, the clerk - a bored brunette - obliged.
"Yes," the woman said. "Yes, that's nice. I'll take that. An ounce size."
From a mirror-faced store shelf behind her, out of reach of customers, the clerk selected a white, black-lettered box and placed it on the counter. "That's fifty dollars, plus sales tax. Will it be cash or charge?"
The older woman hesitated. "Oh, I hadn't realized it would be that much."
"We have smaller sizes, madam."
"No . . . Well, you see, it's a gift. I suppose I ought . . . But I'll wait and think it over."
As the woman left the counter, so did the perfume salesclerk. She moved through an archway, momentarily out of sight. On the counter, the boxed perfume remained where the clerk had left it.
Irrationally, incredibly, in Erica's mind a message formed: Norell's my perfume. Why not take it?
She hesitated, shocked at her own impulse. While she did, a second message urged: Go on! You're wasting time! Act now!
Afterward, she remembered that she waited long enough to wonder: Was it really her own mind at work? Then deliberately, unhurriedly, but as if a magnetic force were in control, Erica moved from Cosmetics to Perfume. Without haste or waste motion, she lifted the package, opened her handbag and dropped it in. The handbag had a spring fastener which snapped as it closed. The sound seemed to Erica like the firing of a gun. It would draw attention!
What had she done?
She stood trembling, waiting, afraid to move, expecting an accusing voice, a hand on her shoulder, a shouted "Thief!"
Nothing happened. But it would; she knew it would, at any moment.
How could she explain? She couldn't. Not with the evidence in her handbag. She reasoned urgently: Should she take the package out, return it to where it was before the foolish, unbelievable impulse swept over her and made her act as she had? She had never done this before, never, nor anything remotely like it.
Still trembling, conscious of her own heartbeat, Erica asked herself: Why? What reason was there, if any, for what she had just done? The most absurd thing was, she didn't need to steal: the perfume or anything else.
There was money in her purse, a checkbook.
Even now she could call the salesclerk to the counter, could spill out money to pay for the package, and that would be that. Providing that she acted quickly. Now!
No.
Obviously, because still nothing had happened, no one had seen her. If they had, Erica thought, by now she would have been accosted, questioned, perhaps taken away. She turned. Casually, feigning indifference, she surveyed the store in all directions. Business was going on as usual. No one seemed in the least interested in her, or was even looking her way. The perfume salesclerk had not reappeared.
Unhurriedly, as before, Erica moved back to Cosmetics.
She reminded herself: she had wanted some perfume anyway. The way she had got it had been foolish and dangerous and she would never, ever, do the same thing again. But she had it now, and what was done was done.
Trying to undo it would create difficulties, require explanations, perhaps followed by accusation, all of which were best avoided.
A salesclerk at Cosmetics was free. With her most engaging smile and manner Erica asked to try some orange lipstick shades.
One danger, she knew, still remained: the clerk at the perfume counter.
Would the girl miss the package she had put down? If so, would she remember that Erica had been close by? Erica's instinct was to leave, to hurry from the store, but reason warned her: she would be less conspicuous where she was. She deliberately dawdled over the lipstick choice.
Another customer had stopped at Perfumes. The salesclerk returned, acknowledged the newcomer, then, as if remembering, looked at the counter where the Norell package had been left. The salesgirl seemed surprised. She turned quickly, inspecting the stock shelf from where she had taken the package to begin with. Several others were on the shelf; some, the ounce-size Norell. Erica sensed the girl's uncertainty: Had she put the package back or not?
Erica, being careful not to watch directly, heard the customer who had just arrived ask a question. The perfume clerk responded, but seemed worried and was looking around her. Erica felt herself inspected. As she did, she smiled at the cosmetics clerk and told her, "I'll take this one." Erica sensed the inspection by the other salesclerk finish.
Nothing had happened. The salesgirl was probably more worried about her own carelessness, and what might happen to her as a result of it, than anything else. As Erica paid for the lipstick, opening her handbag only a little to extract a billfold, she relaxed.
Before leaving, with a sense of mischief, she even stopped at the perfume counter to try a sample of Norell.
Only when Erica was nearing the store's outer door did her nervousness return. It became terror as she realized: She might have been seen after all, then watched and allowed to get this far so that the store would have a stronger case against her. She seemed to remember reading somewhere that that kind of thing happened. The parking mall, visible outside, seemed a waiting, friendly haven - near, yet still far away.
"Good afternoon, madam." From nowhere, it seemed to Erica, a man had appeared beside her. He was middle-aged, graying, and had a fixed smile revealing prominent front teeth.
Erica froze. Her heart seemed to stop. So after all . . .
"Was everything satisfactory, madam?"
Her mouth was dry. "Yes . . . yes, thank you."
Deferentially, the man held a door open. "Good day."
Then, relief flooding through her, she was in the open air. Outside.
Driving away, at first, she had a let-down feeling. Now that she knew how unnecessary all the worrying had been, that there was nothing whatever she need have become concerned about, her fears while in the store seemed foolishly excessive. She still wondered, though: What had made her do it?
Suddenly, her mood became buoyant; she felt better than she had in weeks.
Erica's buoyancy persisted through the afternoon and carried over while she prepared dinner for Adam and herself. No carelessness in the kitchen tonight!
She had chosen Fondue Bourguignonne as the main course, partly because it was one of Adam's favorites, but mostly because the idea of them eating together out of the same fondue pot suggested an intimacy which she hoped would continue through the evening. In the dining room, Erica planned her table setting carefully. She chose yellow taper candles in spiral silver holders, the candles flanking an arrangement of chrysanthemums. She had bought the flowers on the way home, and now put those left over in the living room so that Adam would see them when he came in. The house gleamed, as it always did after a day's sprucing by Mrs. Gooch. About an hour before Adam was due, Erica lit a log fire.
Unfortunately, Adam was late, which was not unusual; what was unusual was his failure to telephone to let Erica know. When 7:30 came and went, then 7:45 and eight o'clock, she became increasingly restless, going frequently to a front window which overlooked the driveway, then rechecking the dining room, after that the kitchen where she opened the refrigerator to satisfy herself that the salad greens, prepared over an hour ago, had retained their crispness. The beef tenderloin for the fondue, which Erica had cut into bitesize pieces earlier, as well as condiments and sauces already in serving dishes were in there too. When Adam did arrive, it would take only minutes to have dinner ready.