Mercury Man (16 page)

Tom sat down warily, not daring to look at his grandfather.

“I'm going to show you one of our promo films, but I don't want you to groan over that,” Dr. Tarn explained. “It's quite short and reasonably entertaining. This will be followed immediately by a special presentation, which will give you a sense of some of the problems we face. It's not something we show
casually. If you have any questions afterward, I'd be happy to answer them.”

Tarn signalled with his right hand; the lights dimmed and the show began on the screen above them.

“THE NEW HUMAN FUTURE,” the title ran, “CODES BEYOND CHAOS.” A series of colourful images flowed quickly past, figures superimposed on one another, stretched and distorted. Apelike creatures faded away into recognizable human forms; these dissolved in turn and became stiff and robotic shapes, almost threatening. The robots marched across the screen, but as they passed through a gate inscribed with the letters “FABRICON” a blue light enveloped them: each changed, transformed into a perfect human body. The human figures joined hands and danced away joyously, dissolving in a golden light at the vanishing point of a great plain.

From this point the film's narrative line became clear. It was the story of two great human accomplishments: the invention of the computer on the one hand, and the mapping of the genetic code on the other. A narrator skilfully traced these separate histories accompanied by a host of illustrations and animations. Tom sat contentedly watching. He was beginning to relax, for he could see nothing subversive in all this. He had sat through many similar films in high school and he could not believe that Tarn's film had anything to do with brainwashing. It was all very predictable and almost boring: at one point, he even had to stifle a yawn. This was nothing like what he had witnessed from the balcony on his first visit.

After a while the film began to wind down toward a conclusion. The final message was that through advanced computer techniques the individual genetic code could be mapped and dealt with. There were great benefits to come: improvements in medicine, better planning of children, a general improvement of the human family. Some dangers were casually alluded to, including the possibility of subliminal programming that would be irresistible because it was based on a map of a person's genetic inheritance. In that case, the film blithely asserted, nature itself would be doing the programming. This danger was played down, however, and the show ended with another vision of the Fabricon scientists leading the way to a brighter future.

“Very interesting,” Jack commented. “A pretty good show.” Tom felt greatly relieved, but the hall lights did not go up. Dr. Tarn said, “And now we have a little film that shows you one of the roadblocks we've run into in planning the future. It identifies one of the enemies of progress. We can't show this film in public, but it's quite accurate, and we hoped it might help you appreciate our problems.”

Without a pause the screen lit up with a new narrative. Dr. Tarn's recorded voice boomed through the hall. Images of Fabricon floated up — its labs, its reception rooms, and the faces of its personnel, CEO Binkley prominent among them.

Then suddenly the story shifted to the question of subversion, industrial sabotage, ungrateful and corrupt employees bent on exploiting a generous company.
Tom gasped, leaned forward, and gripped the seat in front of him.

Tom felt his grandfather's grip on his arm;
steady
, it seemed to convey to him,
don't give everything away.

Tom held his breath.

The screen had filled up with the face of the man in black.

The voice of Tarn declaimed from the screen: “This is the story of Paul Daniel, a man who betrayed Fabricon. He not only embezzled funds but stole company secrets in order to sell them to other firms. In doing so, he destroyed his own career and failed the company, his family, and his friends. His own daughter, shocked by his indictment, is now unable to speak.

“It was with sadness that our company witnessed the downfall of this brilliant man. Reluctantly, we were forced to prosecute, and Paul Daniel has now served a jail term for his crimes. As you look at these records of human failure, try to have a measure of pity for this unfortunate man.”

Tom swallowed hard. The screen showed pictures and blowups of several newspaper stories. There was the man himself with his dark satanic eyebrows, his thin lips, and his twisted smile. The man they had begun to trust!

Newspaper clippings, legal documents, testimony from witnesses — the evidence piled up until it was impossible to doubt it. The film continued with words from the police: damning evidence. The man had served six months in jail and now was on probation. And there was the image of a young girl, dark-haired
and lovely, looking shocked and stricken — Paul Daniel's daughter.

How could Tarn possibly be making this up? He would be sued for libel, discredited. It must be true.

A man who had betrayed his child, his family. An evil man — and suddenly Tom hated him. The very thought of him seemed to poison the air of the auditorium. Tarn had saved them from a dreadful mistake.

Tom heard his grandfather's low whistle beside him; it seemed very far away. Everything in the auditorium had faded and blurred. He swallowed hard and brushed at his eyes. Questions came to him — very many questions — but he didn't trust himself to say a word.

The taxi roared away, leaving Tom and his grandfather standing just outside the iron gate that surrounded Jack's place. Still thinking about their experience at Fabricon, they were momentarily speechless, gazing at the placid old house.

Maisie, his grandfather's particular friend, waved to them from the garden. She was wearing a colourful bandanna and a bright flowered dress, and she sang to herself as she watered her rather wilted roses.

“The life of the innocent!” Jack groaned as he looked at her, then turned abruptly to Tom. “Now listen to me. This is not going to throw us off the scent! You're not going to swallow all that Tarn stuff hook, line, and sinker, I hope!”

“How can you say that? We saw the proof right there. Tarn can't be making it up. It's Paul Daniel who's been deceiving us. No wonder he's pissed off at Fabricon!”

The taxi ride had been a torture. Tarn had ordered the cab and his grandfather insisted that they be dropped off at his place. Tom just wanted to get away.

“I saw how upset you were by the film — that's why I signalled you not to talk in the taxi. There's no telling what Fabricon can do or who works for them. We have to be very careful.”

Tom shook his head. His grandfather was trying to make him feel better, and he wasn't having any of it.

“You seemed to swallow it all,” the boy murmured. “You practically kissed Tarn's hand as we left. You don't have to soften the blow for me, Grandpa. I know I've been out of my mind. There's no brainwashing. Nothing bad happens in the Pavlov Room. It's all a crock. I'm going home now.”

Even as he said it, he thought of Reichert lording it over his mother from the armchair and his heart sank.

Jack reached out and held him firmly by the shoulders.

“Listen to me, Tom! You thought you witnessed your friends being brainwashed. Maybe they were. And what do you think just happened to you? Paul Daniel was painted as an embezzler, but I don't think that's what got you, son.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don't you think Tarn knows that your dad left you? All that stuff about Paul Daniel causing his daughter harm. Why should that come into it at all? You've been put through the wringer, Tom. Tarn knew exactly how to play it. He doesn't want you connecting with Paul Daniel at all. You've just been conditioned yourself.”

Tom pulled away. The lazy Saturday traffic crawled by. Maisie's red bandanna bobbed up and down as she worked. What was his grandfather telling him? It was too fantastic.

“You have to remember. Those media guys are always manipulating us poor suckers, and Tarn is obviously working a new angle on the same old game. Why should he pass up a chance to neutralize you? You're the one who's trying to blow the whistle on him. And if he has to, he'll do it again.”

Tom shook his head. This was hard to accept; his grandfather was just trying to make him feel better.

“It can't be …”

“It
could
be, and I intend to find out if it is. I'm pushing ahead with my checkup on these people.” He pointed at the Fabricon portfolios, which he had stuffed between the spokes of the iron fence. “Even their own handouts may be useful. If you don't mind I'll just take your copy along with me. I'm curious about a lot of things. For one, it's certainly odd that Paul Daniel has the same name as the guy who owns the amusement park. I can see that I've got a hell of a lot of work to do!”

Tom nodded mechanically. His body seemed to have gone numb and he found it hard to speak. Had Tarn really played with him, manipulated him?

He needed to get away. He had to think everything over. And there was something he knew he had to do.

Jack retrieved the portfolios and stood watching him.

“Are you sure you're OK?”

“I'm sure, Grandpa — and by the way, thanks.”

“I'll be in touch!” Jack turned away.

Tom began a slow jog home. It felt good to have his body in motion. He didn't really want to think, but Tarn's film played in his mind. The image of that man! An embezzler! A man who had ruined his family. If Paul Daniel showed up again he would confront him. It couldn't all be just slander! Daniel would have to explain — but how
could
he explain? The world seemed to be full of liars and truth-benders — everybody changing reality around to suit himself.

Tom crossed Hollis and kept going past the pool parlour. A glance inside — a quick glance — and his pace slackened. Was that Jeff Parker in there? Jeff lounging beside the pool table, a cigarette in his mouth? It wasn't possible. Sweat streaked Tom's forehead and he brushed it away. A few days ago he wouldn't have believed it. Now he would believe anything. Or nothing.

Morris Street looked desolate; their apartment building seemed shabbier than ever. A bottle had been smashed in the dingy stairwell, and a kind of goo smeared with dirt stuck to his heels. Out of breath now and almost blinded by sweat, he entered their tiny flat — and knew in a moment it was empty.

His mother hadn't left a note this time. Tom went straight to his bedroom, pulled the shade down, and crashed on the bed. When his breathing became normal he dragged himself up, stripped down to his underwear, opened the dresser drawer, and retrieved his ring. He groaned at the futility of his dreams, slipped the ring on
his finger, and lay down on the bed. The cracks in the ceiling bothered him, so he pulled the covers over his face. He tried to think, but his mind filled up with hopeless thoughts; misery seemed to have settled in for the duration. He closed his eyes. After a while, a miracle happened: he went to sleep.

He woke up in the dark and lay unmoving. The bedsheets were damp with his sweat. He stirred and threw them off. Flashing lights at the window — night outside the room. And something there, a greenish white glow as he moved his hand — his ring!

He stared at it for a while and remembered a promise he had made to himself. For some reason it seemed more important than ever to keep it. Just because of that feeling — though all the slouching demons in his soul cried “Stay!” — he dragged himself up.

Twenty minutes later he was walking by the river. His watch said nine. He headed west: there the city dwindled to insignificance between the ancient warehouses and the half-occupied factories, places full of cobwebs and lost dreams. The dying sunset, a faint smear of light on the horizon, seemed to mock West Hope itself, the city of no hope, the hub of nothing, a sad metropolis that was dwindling, moment by moment, in his mind.

Yet Tom, who had showered and changed, felt alive in his body. His blood had been stirred up by his brisk walk. Despite the confusion of things, he was taking action — amazing how that warded off the blues! He looked around at the bleak streets, the grim metal bridges, held his breath at the stink of the river. Despite
a small breeze that moved flags and tattered awnings, its black sludge seemed hardly to stir.

He came out near the great pier that lay at the bottom of Harbour Street, beside a sprawl of condemned buildings. As his uncle had explained, this place had once been a centre of the river traffic. Boone Jetty, as it was called, consisted of a long wooden ramp, a few ramshackle sheds, and myriad old tires painted white and nailed to rotting posts. Nearby lay the wreck of a barge, a brown hump covered with bright green slime.

The jetty was known as a dangerous place at night — and sure enough, a couple of Camaros were zooming around, horns blasting and tires squealing as they criss-crossed paths and charged at each other. The wooden planks roared, the shacks trembled, the old tires swung on their posts. The young drivers leaned out the windows of their vehicles, swearing and threatening each other, while a couple of male bystanders laughed and calmly urinated into the river.

Tom hung back, safe in the shadows of a half-collapsed warehouse, and waited for the action to subside. When, amid a volley of vicious threats and swearing, the cars finally roared away, he slipped across the end of the jetty and cut back to the bottom of Harbour Street.

This was a curious area, some of it redeveloped and near genteel, like Water Street, from which he had last approached Fabricon — while other parts were shameless slums.

As he followed the fence away from the river he encountered not a single pedestrian, although the Fabricon tower, further up the street, rose above him like a challenge.

“Two-twenty-one,” he said aloud, then murmured it again, like a mantra. “
Two-twenty-one
.” That was the place the ring had come from. He vaguely remembered a house standing between Fabricon and the amusement park, but it was a mere ghost in his mind.