An ampersand is a promise that two things belong together. “And” merely lists; “&” binds. It is the difference between a partnership and a pile — one mark deciding whether two words are colleagues or merely neighbours.
We set ours in an italic Garamond, a touch larger than it strictly needs to be, because the join between vector and lore is the actual argument of the name: the measurable and the told, held together in a single glyph.
The ligature began as the Latin et — “and” — written fast, two letters folded into one stroke to save a scribe's hand. Speed became a shape; the shape outlived its reason and became meaning. The mark we now treat as decoration is a thousand-year-old abbreviation that forgot it was ever in a hurry.
Typography is full of these small inheritances — marks that started as conveniences and ended as significance. A good identity notices them, and lets one or two carry weight the words cannot. The ampersand asks nothing of the reader and tells them everything about the company: that here, two things are held as one.
Say less, better — even the punctuation can be made to mean something.
Between two names, the smallest mark on the page does the work neither word could do alone. That is the whole of it.