Mercury Man Page 12

  “No, Grandpa.”

  “Hell, then, let’s go!”

  They crossed the street, pushed through the doors and into the building. Standing in the silent, brightly lit foyer Tom sensed at once that the place was relatively deserted — it was Saturday, after all, and even Fabricon must cut back a little on the weekend. Was that why Tarn had wanted them today?

  They walked around the fountain and found the reception desk occupied by a slender woman wearing a white lab jacket. She was giving most of her attention to a high-powered laptop and only slowly looked up at them through her shaded horn-rimmed glasses. Tom wasn’t sure, but he thought he might have seen her on his earlier visit — he didn’t remember the glasses, though.

  “We have an appointment with Dr. Tarn,” Jack told her and gave her their names.

  She nodded, picked up the phone, and dialled a number.

  “Dr. Tarn is on his way down,” she said. She turned her attention back to the computer.

  Minutes later, Tarn appeared at the inner door. He too was wearing a white lab jacket; his high-polished shoes clicked slightly on the corridor floor. He greeted them with a smile and a sharp blue-eyed glance that seemed to have more amusement than malice in it.

  “So glad you could make it. Thanks very much, Marie,” he said, and led them into the bland hallway that Tom remembered vividly, as if from a nightmare or a past life. Yet everything seemed relaxed and easy and his grandfather winked reassuringly as they followed the scientist into the inner recesses of Fabricon.

  Tarn led them straight into a spacious room, furnished with leather chairs and a sofa, expensive lamps, a huge carved table, oriental rugs, and a battery of sophisticated but elegant equipment. Fax machines, telephone, computers, monitors, and printers — all seemed to have been specially designed in matching dark green and black decor for that setting.

  Tarn pointed them to seats on the sofa. A door opened and a man dressed in a suit and tie pushed out a cart loaded with coffee, pastries, and soft drinks.

  “Thanks, Charles,” Tarn said, pouring a coffee for himself and selecting a Danish pastry. He indicated that they should help themselves, and patiently sipped his coffee while they did so.

  When they had settled down, Tarn said, “I’ve brought you here to tell you that your little intrusion is forgiven, Tom. As I explained to you when we met, we operate this company according to the highest ideals. We’re not a corporation that’s indifferent to pressing social needs, and although we have a vision of the future, I’m not Dr. Frankenstein. I would like to get you on our side, and to do that I’m willing to show you what kind of problems we run into at Fabricon. That’s why I’ve asked you here.”

  Jack nodded amiably; Tom remembered the cynical laughter of the man in the parking lot.

  “I won’t repeat my comments on the Fabricon vision — I’m sure you’ve heard enough from me on that score.” Dr. Tarn smiled and sipped his coffee. “What I’ve done is had some important material prepared for you. Over there” — he indicated a small table near the doorway — “you’ll find two portfolios giving all the relevant facts about the company. We don’t mind admitting we’ve made some mistakes, and you might even find some evidence of that in the material I’ve provided. But I think on the whole it will be reassuring.”

  “Well, that’s just terrific,” Jack said. “I’ll have a good read, then. Appreciate your providing that, Dr. Tarn.”

  “No problem. But there’s one more thing. I’d be very pleased if you both would watch a little visual presentation we’ve prepared for you. I think it may change your perspective on a few things.”

  Tom cast a sharp look at his grandfather. Conditioning by film! The Pavlov Room! But the old man was smiling and nodding at Tarn.

  “We’d be very pleased to take a look,” he said.

  “Good! I’ll have Marie hold the portfolios at the reception desk for you. Just follow me and I think you’ll see something that will begin to help you understand some of Fabricon’s corporate problems. Might even induce our young friend here to join the enterprise!”

  Tarn laughed and gently patted Tom’s shoulder. The boy took a deep breath and forced a smile. As Tarn led the way into the corridor, Jack gave him the high sign: everything is cool, his gesture seemed to say. Tom gritted his teeth and obediently followed Tarn toward the rear of the building.

  A small elevator carried them up and into the heart of Fabricon. As they stepped out, Tom saw the robot sculpture, suspended above them like a parade balloon. He recognized the lounge space, with its chairs, tables, and magazines; directly above was the balcony that had given him access to the projection area.

  Tarn led them across a carpeted space, then through heavy double doors, which swung inward as they entered. A brass plate identified this as Copernicus Hall. They were being taken to the very place where he had seen his friends being conditioned!

  I should have brought my ring, Tom thought. The ring would have protected me.

  One part of Tom’s mind saw this as a joke, or as pure superstition, yet his gut feeling was very different. The world was a strange place, full of fears and uncertainties, and he hadn’t yet heard of anybody with all the answers. Sometimes not even money could save you. It was better to pay your respects to fate than to be sorry later.

  As they walked up the centre aisle, he looked around the auditorium. It was dimly lit, spacious, plush, beautifully contoured, and silent. Except for the three of them, it was empty. The white screen looked as pure as an operating table. Rows of curving banked seats were decorous in dark green cloth. The balconies from which he had spied on Fabricon were enclosed by a brass rail. The usual plastic fittings seemed to have been banished from this temple of luxury and quiet elegance.

  “This should be just about perfect,” Dr. Tarn told them, when they reached a point ten rows back from the small orchestra pit. “Why don’t we sit here?”

  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.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Welcome to the Funhouse

  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 sh
abbier 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.