Mercury Man (7 page)

Despite its lofty spaces, the main Fabricon hall seemed claustrophobic. He resumed his march forward,
but anxious thoughts assailed him. Suppose they caught him? He wanted to find out where his friends were, but what about the risks? He could be arrested for trespassing, or even worse. In which case his mother would be frantic.

A few anxious moments later he had reached a point just opposite the robot figure that dominated the lofty hall. Close up he could see that it was really a comical sculpture, a jolly construction suspended from on high by invisible wires. It looked like a composite of all the robots he had seen in science fiction movies, and it had some kind of formula (or was it a secret language?) written across its metallic chest. Underneath it, far below, sat the two men he had spotted earlier, still busy with their coffee, magazines, and casual conversation.

Tom hesitated a moment. The men, chatting together, seemed oblivious to his presence. A few steps farther, then, on the right, almost at his elbow, he saw large double doors fixed with a brass plate that bore the inscription “COPERNICUS.” Underneath this, a sheet of paper had been pinned up. It read: “Experiment in Progress. Absolutely no admittance.”

He hesitated, hearing faint noises from within, but moved on toward where the walkway curved beneath an enormous skylight. Here he came upon another, much smaller, door, this one marked “CONTROL ROOM.”

He peered through a tiny window and saw, inside a dimly lit booth, elaborate machinery and a man standing behind a complicated-looking projector. The man, engrossed in his task, didn't see him, and Tom ducked
back, thinking,
A movie, some kind of promo. Is this where they all are? But why the secrecy?

There was only one way to find out. He slipped back to the entrance door, carefully removed the posted warning, and shoved it into the pocket of his overalls. He pushed gently at the door. It yielded, and there was a moment's glare of light, accompanied by a blare of sound. He stepped forward and suddenly found himself standing in the darkness of some kind of large upper chamber.

He stood there, shrinking into the shadows, waiting for a sign that his entry had been noticed. Nothing happened and he breathed easier.

A show was in progress. A seductive female voice was talking about Fabricon.

“YOU ARE PART OF THIS NOW. ALWAYS REMEMBER THAT THE FUTURE OF FABRICON IS UP TO YOU.”

The voice irritated him. Beyond shadowy rows of seats and a curving line of wall, he saw a kind of chasm. The chasm seemed to be boiling up with light and sound.

The glass booth at the rear issued beams of light — a projector in action.

He was standing in a darkened balcony of Copernicus Hall and a show was in progress. “YOU ARE THE FUTURE AND THE FUTURE IS YOU,” the voice said. “REPEAT WITH ME NOW. LET THE WORD RUN OVER YOUR TONGUES. FABRICON.”

From the chasm, collective youthful voices chanted, “FABRICON.”

Tom scrambled over the seats and peered down into the auditorium. The seats were full of faces, the darkness alive with disembodied heads. Tom was certain he could see his friends there — Bim and Pete and Estella and Jeff. They sat in rapt attention, with many others, staring up, their eyes reflecting the screen's flashing light. Held rigid, their heads seemed barely to move and their lips opened together as they chanted the single word: “FABRICON!”

Tom stood back in horror. The screen showed geometric patterns, shifting, changing, moving. He stared at them for a minute and felt his attention fixed and narrowed. It was disturbing. He could hardly tear his glance away.

What was going on down there?
A training session? It seemed more than that. An indoctrination? But that smooth voice, those rhythmical lights, the chanting voices.

Was it possible? His friends were being hypnotized by Fabricon!

Even as this thought come into Tom's mind the balcony door swung open. A beam of light swept the darkness, caught him and held him. He blinked and lifted a hand to shield his eyes.

“Don't move! You! Stand right there!”

The harsh, hoarse whisper of the man in the doorway. Tom wanted to run, but before he could move, another man appeared, sprang up the aisle with lightning speed, and grabbed him roughly by the shoulder.

“C'mon you! What in hell are you doing in here?”

The second man shoved him toward the lighted doorway, while the other man, the one who had first challenged him, kept the light in his face.

“Bring him right out here,” he said. “Tarn will raise hell if he finds out we've breached security.”

Tom found himself out on the walkway, shoved against the wall, his captors, two clean-cut young men in white lab jackets, glaring at him, inspecting him from head to toe.

“Don't you know you're not supposed to clean in there? Didn't you read the sign?” the first man said.

“The sign's gone, Larry. Some idiot took the sign down.”

The second man waved a hand in front of his eyes — Tom didn't flinch. He felt a moment of exultation. They thought he was one of the cleaning staff! That gave him an idea, a desperate idea, one that might just save him. He stared straight ahead, tried to glaze his glance, and whispered, “FABRICON. FABRICON IS THE FUTURE.”

There was a pause. He sensed the puzzlement of the two men, their hesitation, but he kept his look glazed, straight ahead.

“Can you beat that!” one of the men said. “This kid's been zombied by the program. He must have wandered in there by mistake. What a mess! We'll have to get in touch with Tarn himself.”

“Let's take him downstairs and lock him up. Tarn can decide what to do with him. I wonder who the hell took the sign down?”

“One of us has to stay here. Why don't you take him down? And find out who he is so we can check his records. Tarn will want to see those before he does anything. Imagine, getting accidentally zombied by the program!”

“What's going on up there?” a voice called from below. Tom knew it must be one of the men in the lower hall, but he kept his eyes fixed, his face blank.

One of the white-coated men leaned over the balcony.

“It's all right,” he shouted down. “One of the cleaners had a dizzy spell. We're taking him for a little first aid.”

Quickly, the other man steered Tom toward a nearby stairwell. He was avoiding the open stairs, and it was clear that the men who had shouted up knew nothing of what was happening in the projection room. A special indoctrination? A secret operation within Fabricon? That was an important fact to remember.

“What's your name, son?” the man asked as he ushered him down the stairs.

“Tom Strong,” he said, making his voice as hollow as he could. It was the first name that had come into his head — the name of Mercury Man's sidekick. But there was no hero to save him now.

“You just relax and keep on walking. You've had a little episode and I'm taking you to a place where you can rest.”

They came out in the corridor where Tom had begun his search. A woman in a grey suit was standing at the water fountain next to the door marked “EINSTEIN.” He wasn't sure if it was the same woman who had accosted him earlier.

“So you've caught him?” she said. “Why is he dressed up like a cleaner?”

His captor pulled up short. Tom felt a rough hand on his shoulder.

“What do you mean? Caught who?” the man asked.

“Some kid got by Mac — claimed he was looking for his friends. He's probably a thief looking for some equipment.”

With all his strength Tom yanked free. He stumbled once, then burst away down the corridor.

Behind him, the man swore, and the woman cried out, “Help!”

He reached the exit door. The sign read, “EMERGENCY ONLY. NO WAY OUT.”

Tom launched himself at the doors; they burst open. An alarm sounded. He was suddenly outside.

The man was after him, coming out of the lighted building. He wasn't in good shape, Tom saw, and was already breathing hard. Tom dodged around a couple of cars and sprinted across an open space. The man was still behind him, but losing ground.

Ahead was a low stone wall, and behind that the trees and bushes of Fabricon Park. Tom knew the park — there were good places to hide there — and beyond lay the city streets.

Over his shoulder Tom saw car lights go on in the parking lot. They were using a vehicle. He stopped in his tracks, tore off the cleaner's suit, and threw it away.

He sprinted toward the brightly lit park entrance, for him an open sesame into a deserted street. He had
to get out of there and into the heart of the city before they cut him off. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a car coming out of the Fabricon lot. He burst through the park entrance, dashed across the street and into one of the narrow alleys that ran along the west side of Harbour Street.

He knew he still wasn't safe and was tempted to hide out for a while in the all-night grocery he found on the corner. He decided it was too risky; they might just stop and ask about him.

He ran past the grocery and found another street, one he didn't know at all. It seemed to run south toward the city, and far up ahead he could see more lights and hear the roar of real traffic. The sooner he got to a busy section, the better.

Two blocks more and he had to slow down. He was beginning to feel safer now. No sign of the car, which may have turned the wrong way or simply gone back to Fabricon.

He walked as fast as he could, looking behind him from time to time, trying to take in what had happened. He was scared and shaken up. All of a sudden he had a secret. He was a hunted kid. He was in danger.

Around him it was quiet, however, and he began to relax. When a car appeared he ducked close to a building and waited. At one point he went into a candy store and bought a Coke. He drank it near the entrance, looking up and down and watching the traffic for a while.

When he was sure he was clear of them, he walked out into the street.

A main intersection lay ahead. From there he could get to Hollis. His object was to reach home as quickly as possible. After that, he could sit down and think things out.

“No problem,” he kept repeating, saying it over and over to calm himself. His legs were beginning to feel weary, leaden. He felt filthy and drenched in sweat.
No problem
.

But when he reached the next corner and pushed on toward Hollis, confident that he was free of trouble at last, he saw that there was a problem.

A tall man in a black jogging suit was trotting after him.

For the first time, Tom was really afraid. He was gut-scared, and the fear made his tired legs seem even heavier and his shoulders sag. A kind of hopelessness crept over him and made it difficult to breathe.

I've got to keep running
, he told himself.
I've got to figure this out.

Sometimes fear brings insight. Tom was terrified, and he had no confidence he could outrun the man. But as he picked up his own speed — driving his tired body forward until it hurt — he was charting the territory just ahead of him, remembering the streets and the back alleys, trying to work out a way to escape the man's relentless pursuit.

He had already decided that he wouldn't make for home. His mother would surely be there. He might put her in danger — at the least she would be frightened and ask a lot of questions. She might even call the company.

No, he had to head for Grandpa's place. Even though he was a little afraid to face him, he knew that old Jack wouldn't panic, that he would know what to do. Tom desperately needed a plan of action.

He reached Jefferson Street and stopped on the corner. The old Y, a gloomy pile of smoke-darkened brick, stood just opposite. He stared longingly at its fortress-like bulk and at the tangled traffic up on Hollis, just one block away. Was it better to duck into a building or to stay outside? Maybe the street was safer — the man wasn't going to hurt him or grab him there. Or was he?

A police car cruised up slowly and stopped near the corner, just outside the Y. Tom was tempted to run over, to tell them everything. But then it occurred to him that he might have committed a crime at Fabricon. He'd as good as broken into the place, and he'd stolen some clothing and set off an alarm. The police would-n't believe his story. Fabricon had a good reputation. And who was he?

All the same, he was sure there was something wrong at the computer firm. His friends
had
looked like zombies. If he hadn't seen them being brainwashed, what
had
he seen? Maybe his grandfather would have the answer.

Now he turned and saw the man coming on. A tall man, dark-haired, lithe, and almost handsome. He didn't look like a killer. But then he was from Fabricon.

The man was about half a block away. Tom thought,
The guy won't grab me in front of a police car.

At the same time he was aware that a lot could happen under the noses of the police.

The light changed and he jogged across the street. A burly cop eyed him as he passed but seemed to have little interest. At least there was no alarm out.
Of course there isn't! Fabricon can't risk it!

Tom struggled to catch his breath. Hollis Street loomed ahead, the downtown section, a tangle of light and shadow, a pandemonium of cars and trucks. A bus roared by, impatient drivers leaned on their horns, and pedestrians hurried home, loaded down with parcels.

All these ordinary people, Tom realized, knew nothing; they had no idea of what was happening. They would be the first to want him thrown in jail for his escapade. “We need Fabricon,” they would say. “We don't need crazy kids stirring things up!”

Tom came out on Hollis, took a quick look over his shoulder, and saw the man coming on.

But now he had an idea of how to shake him. He dashed across at the light, jogged past a candy store and a photo shop, then ducked through the doors of Zinser's Five and Dime.