The Little Engine That Might

As some local innovators are discovering, it takes much more than a breakthrough in auto technology to make it big in Detroit.

Eric Takamura signs off the computer and picks up his coat and keys. No sense putting this off. He steps across the hall to the conference room doorway and tells Joel Jermakian he's heading downtown. The meeting is going to be at some restaurant -- "Chef Goff's," he says.

"Chef Geoff's," Jermakian corrects him.

Whatever. Takamura shrugs his trench coat higher on his shoulders and walks out into the late afternoon, knowing the traffic's going to be awful on the Dulles Toll Road into Washington. But he dreads the meeting more than the drive. It's not so much that his future is on the line again; after nine years of helping to run a small company, he's used to the feeling of looming disaster.

What really worries Takamura about this meeting is that it's supposed to be an informal "chat session," a chance to mingle with a group of bigwigs from investment firms. If they like him, maybe they'll invite him to a more formal session, where he would get two minutes to make his pitch and persuade them to invest in his company. He needs the money. If the company can just keep it together for one more year, the technology he and a few colleagues have poured their lives into might finally be on track for something big.

And so tonight, to clear the first hurdle, he has to chat.

Takamura can rebuild a set of brakes or calculate the vibration of a moving vehicle. He can change a diaper, fix drywall and hang out all night drinking and dancing with friends. But Takamura doesn't chat.

So he smokes to relax as he drives his 1995 Toyota Corolla, wearing his good suit and a fresh haircut. He picks up one colleague and meets another at the downtown restaurant. They seem to be early, though really they're just unfashionably on time. As the room fills up, as people with name tags pinned to their suits greet each other like old friends, Takamura and his two colleagues stand in a knot, clutching drinks and glancing over their shoulders at the milling crowd.

Most of these other people are here to promote their companies, too, but they're a different breed. They peddle software or Internet services. This is their element: networking, handing out business cards and spouting punchy descriptions of the amazing, innovative, can't-miss ideas that will soon generate tons of cash for savvy investors. They'll shake hands with anybody, but the real objective is to find a guest with a little green tab at the bottom of his or her name tag. Green equals cash: The tab-wearers are from venture capital groups looking to put money into hot properties. It's like the late 1990s all over again.

This is a scene Takamura and his colleagues have never experienced. Their company has a clunky name, New Generation Motors, and it makes a mundane-sounding product: electric motors. But there is nothing mundane about what they believe their product can do. This motor is so efficient, they believe, it could help revolutionize the auto industry at a time when gas prices are zooming to record highs. It could make electric cars practical, or help put gas-electric hybrid cars in every driveway, or power buses that don't pollute.

If this were a gathering of college engineering students instead of Internet executives, the guys from New Generation would probably be the center of attention. In the insular, ultracompetitive world of solar car racing, they're stars. Top students from around the globe build and race solar-powered cars, and virtually all the best U.S. college teams use electric motors from New Generation.

Somehow, the New Generation guys have to make these people -- drinking free booze, nibbling on chicken wings and comparing Internet domain names -- understand what they have to offer. For that, Takamura is counting on Anubhav Sethi, a recent George Washington University grad who majored in business and hired on at New Generation a year ago.

Sethi knows the language of business. Unlike Takamura, he seems comfortable in his suit, and his wide, slightly pudgy face radiates sincerity and competence. Clutching a zip-up leather organizer, Sethi agrees to start working the crowd as Takamura and his colleague, GW professor Nabih Bedewi, scurry back to the bar.

The room, lit by candles that give the wood paneling a fleshy glow, is now full, and a few lazy ceiling fans aren't quite enough to keep the air from growing heavy with body heat and aspiration. Sethi dabs a handkerchief at his forehead. He hasn't actually done this networking thing before with such a big group.

He turns into the path of another guy working the room. There's an awkward moment as they stoop to check name tags, and Mark Lewyn introduces himself as chairman of a company called Paxfire Inc. What, he wants to know, is New Generation Motors?

"We make electric motors," Sethi says.

"Sounds like a good thing," Lewyn says. He waits, and it dawns on Sethi to ask what Paxfire is, and Lewyn replies: "I would describe us as an Internet recycler." He lets the line sink in. "We take mistypes, capture that and turn it into money." If users make typos entering an Internet address or topic, Paxfire guesses what they were looking for and routes them to a search engine, saving time and effort. His is a snappy synopsis, honed for cocktail patter. After a moment, he moves on.

Sethi mops his forehead again.

Another guy shows up almost immediately, a balding, sandy-haired man wearing a dark blazer and gray slacks as naturally as some people wear track suits. He's Tim Meyers, and he has a green tab on his name tag. He's on the group's selection committee, which decides which companies get invited back for a formal shot at investment gold.

"Tell me, what is the main use of your motor?" Meyers says. "I'm a software guy, so when I saw that I'm like, 'I need help!'"

Sethi begins explaining the company's technology, including the percentage of energy the motor captures and the unusual method used to control output. Originally from India, Sethi speaks beautiful English, but he speaks softly and with a slight accent. In the roar of the room, he is almost impossible to hear. Sweat is now pouring down his forehead.

"Okay," Meyers interrupts, "so give me a use."

Sethi mentions a deal the company has to build three-wheeled "autorickshaws" in India, and Meyers has seen these vehicles on trips abroad, but then Sethi is off again into an explanation of how the motor works.