Mercury Man Read online

  He stepped boldly through the door and into the great hall of Fabricon.

  It was exactly as he remembered it, and he quickly circumnavigated the fountain and headed straight for the guard desk.

  A grizzled old man looked up from his tabloid paper.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, keeping most of his attention on the paper.

  “I hope I’m not too late,” Tom said. He tried — it wasn’t difficult — to sound breathless and eager. “I missed the pickup and I guess the kids are already here. I ran after the red van but I just missed it.”

  “Oh, them kids. Sure. And what would your name be?”

  “Bim Bavasi,” Tom said. His own name, he knew, wouldn’t be on any list.

  “Just a minute, I’ll call up and tell them.”

  Now Tom was desperate. They would know that Bim was already there; he would be exposed at once.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said, as the man started dialling. “Is there a men’s room here I could use?”

  “Right through them doors, kid. And don’t disappear — they’ll be sending someone down in a minute.”

  Tom stepped quickly through the doors and into the inner sanctum. Luckily, he had remembered from his spring visit that there was a restroom there. He had no intention of stopping there now, however.

  As soon as he was out of the watchman’s sight, he sprinted away down the corridor.

  He turned a corner and came upon an even longer corridor — a softly lit, restful space, it was lined with blue doors and decorated with abstract paintings that looked like spreadsheet graphs. Inscriptions on the doors bore the names of famous scientists: Einstein, Planck, Darwin, and others. There was nothing else in the hall except a fancy looking water cooler.

  It looked as if he had hustled his way into a dead end, and he was tempted by the red exit sign at the far end. But it was just an emergency door: he had boxed himself in. They would soon be after him and he would be exposed and humiliated. Was that what his pursuer had wanted? Or was he waiting outside for the inevitable conclusion?

  Tom stopped. He had no idea what to do.

  The door marked “Einstein” opened, and a woman in a white lab jacket stepped out. She looked at him casually, then more sharply.

  “Can I help you?” She was noticing his rough clothes and probably his panic.

  “Yeah. My friends came over in a red van. I missed it, so I came on my bike. There was nobody out there to ask, so I thought I’d just look for them myself.”

  The woman’s expression lightened.

  “Good old Mac was out for a smoke, was he? I think I know what you want. That’s the Fabricon Youth Group. There’s a stairway there, right next to Darwin, you see? The Youth Group meets on the second floor. In the auditorium, usually — it’s called Copernicus Hall. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks a lot, ma’am.”

  Tom smiled and, restraining himself, found the stairwell. Once out of sight, he turned on all the jets, bounded up two steps at a time, pushed through another door, and emerged in a larger, more imposing space.

  It was huge, as big as a basketball court, but its smooth white walls were lined with display cases, while its arched ceiling made him think of a church. At the far end, high up, hung a metallic robot the size of a small car, dangling on invisible wires above some cushioned chairs and couches. A couple of men sat there, tiny figures beneath the robot, their backs to where Tom stood. They seemed reposeful enough, until a third man appeared from somewhere and said, in a voice loud enough for Tom to hear, “There’s a kid roaming around here, looking for his pals. They’re all with Tarn now in Copernicus and he doesn’t want to be disturbed. If you run into this kid have him wait right here until Tarn gets through with them.”

  One of the men said something in reply. Tom, who had crouched down behind a display case, couldn’t hear it, but he heard their laughter. When he dared to look again, the third man had disappeared and the first two men were sitting placidly together.

  If he were caught, the great Dr. Tarn would speak to him. That was a possibility he didn’t exactly look forward to.

  Examining the hall more carefully now he saw that it was rimmed, several levels higher, by a kind of balcony — a narrow walkway such as sometimes gives access to the higher shelves in old libraries. He saw, too, that about twenty feet away there was a curved metal staircase by which he could reach this walkway. Once up there, he might be able to get a look into Copernicus Hall without being seen. The only trouble was that to do so he would have to walk out in full view of anyone who might come out of any of the many doors that lined both the upper and lower levels of the place.

  The situation seemed hopeless, but then he noticed, a few feet away, a numbered door that looked like it might be a maintenance closet. This gave him an idea, and he crept slowly and carefully forward, keeping his eye on the two men down the hall, hopeful that they wouldn’t turn and spot him.

  He reached the closet, turned the handle, and found that it was open. He was inside in an instant, and he pulled the door shut behind him and flipped on the light. Sure enough, there was a small washbasin, a few mops, brooms, and pails, and the smell of soap and disinfectant.

  When he saw the rough bundled clothing hung on metal pegs in one corner, he sprang forward. He was in luck! Here he had a ready-made disguise that might just do the trick.

  Quickly, he pulled on the work overalls — they were a little small but he managed to get into them. There was even a cap, which he tore at to make it fit his head. He gawked at himself in the mirror, laughed, and grabbed a pail and mop.

  He took a deep breath, slowly opened the door, and stepped back into the corridor.

  He walked forward without much confidence. He knew that, above all, he had to look bored and casual. Workmen didn’t stalk around places holding mops like swords or lances. Deliberately, as he climbed the curving stairway, he clattered the pail against the metal banister. The men in the lounge area turned at once, threw him a glance, then paid him no further attention.

  He took a deep breath. He had passed the first test. Up the stairs he climbed, until he emerged on the narrow walkway, high above the main hall. He stopped for a minute, pretending to work at a patch of floor. He had to move forward along the balcony to reach the auditorium.

  He went slowly and carefully, and his confidence built up a little. It looked like he just might make it. Then suddenly a door opened right behind him and voices sounded so close in his ear that he jumped and gasped. He had sense enough, though, not to spring around, to keep on mopping. His heart pounded wildly as a man and a woman stepped around him, negotiating the narrow space together.

  “Evening,” he mumbled in his deepest voice, without daring to look at them.

  “Evening,” the woman replied.

  They walked on past, engrossed in their conversation, and disappeared into another room. He picked up his mop and continued, as deliberately as he could, in the direction of the auditorium. A man walked out of a room just in front of him.

  Tom turned quickly, set the pail and mop aside, pulled a rag out of his pocket, and pretended to polish the tiled wall. The man walked past without a word.

  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 convers
ation.

  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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Pursuit Begins

  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.