Mercury Man Read online

  Tom was amazed at the old man’s thoroughness. He usually thought of his grandfather as pretty eccentric, forgetting that he had been a sea captain and sailed good-sized ships in and out of some of the world’s biggest seaports.

  After they had everything down on paper and had gone over it a few times, Tom felt much better. By that time the diner was filling up with the lunch crowd — couriers and drivers, river guys, local storekeepers, and the usual array of hairdressers, off-duty waitresses, and a few cool women shopping for bargains in the charity stores.

  Tom was kept busy; he had almost no time to think. Then, suddenly, the crowd was gone, the hands of the clock had turned ‘round, and it was nearly time for the arrival of Dr. Tarn. Tom took a last look at the notes his grandfather had made and kept his glance expectantly on the street outside.

  The counter phone rang suddenly and he grabbed it.

  “Is that you, Tom?”

  It was Estella. Tom quickly explained that they would be seeing Tarn in a few minutes.

  “That’s great. You see, I told you he was an OK guy. Since when do big executives and scientists show up in diners to talk to teenagers?”

  “It might mean he has something to be afraid of.”

  “Hey, Tom. Everything’s going to be cool now, right? You know there’s a little thing tonight at Bim’s. Why don’t you come over? You could give us the scoop on Tarn and we could fill you in on Fabricon. How about it?”

  Tom winced. He was glad to be invited but he knew he wouldn’t go. He liked hanging around with his friends for things like movies and conversation — but the whole girl-boy party scene made him scared and uncomfortable. On that circuit nobody seemed natural: everything was crazy, loud, and competitive, and even the girls he liked were hard to take. And since he didn’t smoke dope there was nothing to smooth things out. This was how he felt, although his feelings embarrassed him. He felt left out and bit like a failure.

  “Thanks for the invitation,” he said. “Maybe I’ll come — but right now I have to concentrate on Tarn.”

  “OK. Sure …” She sounded a little disappointed. “Hey, Tom. You know that film showing you mentioned? I almost forgot, but there was something kind of funny about it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, they did a kind of test before the whole thing. They showed us some swirls and patterns and played some music, and some kids were chosen to watch the film while others were taken off to do something else. I don’t know why they did that.”

  “Neither do I. Thanks for telling me that.”

  “See you tonight, Tom.”

  “Yeah … maybe. Thanks.”

  As he put down the phone he remembered that his mother wanted to give him dinner that evening. He had no idea what he would say to her. Of course Reichert might show up and spoil things — he seemed to be doing that a lot recently.

  Tom took off his apron, glanced at himself in the mirror, pushed his hair back. His grandfather, ensconced at a corner table, waved to him.

  A blue Mercedes convertible had just pulled up at the diner door.

  Tom recognized Dr. Tarn immediately. Despite the heat he was wearing a dark blue suit, sunglasses, and a panama hat, and he carried the same small black briefcase that Tom had seen the previous night.

  Shutting the car door, Tarn paused to look up and down the street, after which his glance roved over Damato’s, seeming to take in the whole place, right down to the missing letter in the old neon window sign. Tom wondered if anyone had ever cast such a sharp look at the diner.

  Tom waved at his grandfather, walked around the counter, and met the scientist as he pushed through the heavy door.

  “Ah, you must be the young Mr. Blake,” the man said, holding out his hand. He was not very tall, but he seemed strongly built, with broad shoulders and restless, massive hands. When he took off his sunglasses Tom saw that he had penetrating dark blue eyes.

  “Willis Tarn of Fabricon. I’m glad to meet you.”

  Tom shook hands with the scientist and Tarn greeted Jack, who had come over to join them.

  “Let’s sit down over here,” Jack said. “Can I get you some coffee, Dr. Tarn?”

  102

  “No thank you, but a glass of juice would be nice.”

  Tarn sat down, took off his hat, and set it on the table. He wiped his forehead decorously with the palm of his hand. His balding head, Tom noticed, was bullet-shaped and large, while his cheeks seemed to bloom with rosy health.

  “Interesting place,” the scientist said, looking around at Damato’s.

  Jack brought over an orange juice and Tarn proceeded to ask them both a few polite questions. Did they live together? How was Tom getting on in school? Did he want to go to university? How was his mother doing?

  The questions were nothing unusual, but Tom felt restless and uneasy. He longed for the scientist to get to the point. Then, without any transition, between one sip of juice and the next, he did.

  “Now what on earth caused a fine young fellow like you to break into Fabricon?” Tarn asked. The question was gently put, but the man’s eyes were unsmiling.

  Tom and his grandfather had rehearsed this one carefully. They had decided not to mention the stranger in the jogging suit. “Never let the other side know what you know,” his grandfather had said. They hoped that Tarn would let something slip that would reveal whether or not the dark stranger was really a company hireling.

  “I was walking down Harbour Street to the amusement park,” Tom said, “and I saw a bunch of my friends come up in a van in front of Fabricon. I was kind of shy to go right up to them, but when they disappeared inside I decided to go in and have a look.”

  “Aaah. … And you were too shy to announce yourself at the front desk, I suppose. Just wandered into the place, is that it?”

  “That’s it. When I got in there I got scared and thought somebody might arrest me for trespassing. So I put on a cleaner’s outfit and tried to sneak out, but I went into the wrong place.”

  “You went into Copernicus Hall. A funny place to choose. And what did you see there?”

  Tom swallowed hard. “There was some kind of movie. I guess it was one of your training promos. I’ve heard a lot about your training program.”

  “Only you don’t want to be part of it! Why is that, Thomas?”

  Tom shook his head. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

  “You haven’t heard bad things about Fabricon?”

  “No, sir. Not at all.”

  “Nobody’s come to you and complained about Fabricon? None of your friends? No stranger?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You just decided to take a look and got in over your head, is that it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me, Thomas, when you caught a glimpse of the training film — did it arouse your interest in Fabricon? Did you like what you saw?”

  “I didn’t actually see much of the film,” Tom told him. He felt that there was a trap in this question somewhere, but he couldn’t exactly figure where.

  He looked at his grandfather and detected a slight nod of encouragement — he wasn’t sure if Tarn had seen it also.

  “It was dark and I got scared,” he went on. “A couple of guys came after me. I just caught a glimpse of these funny patterns. It was like some kind of modern cartoon thing.”

  “Did you listen to the narrative?”

  “I — I can’t remember. There was a lot of stuff about Fabricon, about the future of the company — then the guys came and grabbed me.”

  “Did you catch a glimpse of your friends at all? Were they enjoying the presentation?”

  “I didn’t see them — I just saw the screen. It was dark and I was scared.”

  Dr. Tarn peered at him. “Interesting. It was reported to me that you were there long enough to get a good look at the film and the audience.”

  Jack shifted in his seat, cleared his throat, and looked pointedly at Tarn.

  The scie
ntist didn’t return his glance, but his tone suddenly changed.

  “You have to understand, young man, that Fabricon operates in a very competitive industry. We pay huge sums to hire people with ideas and we expect them to be loyal. Corporate espionage isn’t unknown in the industry, and we’re quite upset when we feel that one of our special programs might be compromised.”

  Jack laughed harshly and shifted in his chair. “You don’t think our Tom’s been paid by somebody to spy on you, do you, Dr. Tarn? Why, he wouldn’t know the first thing about ripping off your secrets! And if you’re inviting all the teenage kids in the city in, why should you care about one more?” He raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if protesting this absurdity.

  Tarn shrugged his shoulders. “We have to keep alert to all the possibilities, Captain Sandalls. We like to control our own environment. We can’t just have people — not even innocent teenagers — dropping in when they feel like it.”

  “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” Tom said. He was glad to hear Tarn say “innocent.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.” The scientist paused, glanced briefly at his watch, and continued. “Perhaps you’d understand better if I told you something of the vision we have at Fabricon. We’re much more than a profit-making organization. Although we are that, we are that.”

  Tarn’s look grew intense. It seemed to sweep past Tom and his grandfather, to soar beyond the narrow streets, the grim buildings, the sweating city.

  “You see, my two friends, the old world we all know is fading away. In that world, human communication was limited to the personal, the trivial, the idiosyncratic. Soon that kind of communication will be as dead as the dinosaurs. All over this planet, more and more people are becoming part of the great world information link.”

  As he spoke, Tarn’s right hand slid across the table. He extracted a sugar cube from the cracked bowl and methodically began to unwrap it. He seemed to be doing this unconsciously, but Tom found the gesture distracting, even a little disturbing.

  “The brain, as is now clear, was nothing but nature’s first effort at making a computer, a communications instrument that would girdle the planet. A crude effort, repeated in each human body, but just successful enough so that this meat machine we carry around on our shoulders was able to find a way to go beyond its limitations.”

  Tom saw his grandfather wince a little at the term “meat machine.”

  “All the minds of the world are becoming one mind. We’re witnessing the beginning of what I call the Great Conversation — people from all over the planet linked up and becoming interested in the same things. Look at how television has brought the whole world together. Now computer companies like Fabricon are shaping the new agenda for the human race.”

  As he spoke, Tarn’s forehead, wrinkled and shining, seemed to expand in the glaring light. The sugar cube moved between his fingers as if he were a conjurer.

  “Cybernetics is working on one front to supersede the crude human brain. On another front, it’s becoming clear that human beings are just animals completely programmed by their genetic inheritance. We have no real freedom of choice, and in the long run we can’t expect to survive unless we let ourselves be guided by the information machines we’ve created. We have to escape from all the old half-baked ideas about soul and personality and spirit. To make ourselves the servants of the greatest force for good this planet has ever known — the ultra-intelligent computer. And every step we take at linking people to a communications network takes us closer to realizing that.”

  Jack shifted uneasily in his chair. “You mean you believe people count for nothing? You want us to give up thinking for ourselves and just learn everything from the machines we’ve created?”

  “Of course I don’t want us to give up thinking, Captain Sandalls. The trouble is that human thinking is too limited. And so is human biology. We need to be rescued from our genetic misprintings, our deviations and irrationalities — not to mention our diseases and psychoses. Then we’ll begin to have dominion over this planet, as the Bible says we should. In fact, it’s our only hope for survival.”

  As Tarn said this he crushed the small sugar cube between his fingers.

  Jack gave a low whistle. “Well, what you say may be what we need, Dr. Tarn, but I sure hope I’m not around to see it happen.”

  Tarn looked at him and laughed. “I can’t expect an old freebooter like you to enjoy these prospects. But the young people understand where we’re going. It doesn’t really matter what us old fogies think.”

  Tarn cast Tom a benevolent look. “You’ve been talking to your friends, haven’t you? Surely they’ve conveyed the excitement in their own way? Or perhaps you got a glimpse of this on your brief visit?”

  Tom sensed that they were getting to the crunch.

  Tarn leaned forward, his blue eyes narrowed. “Why not come over and join us for an evening? I know your friends have already invited you. I think Fabricon would be quite willing to forget your little intrusion if you’d give us a chance to show you what we really are.”

  Tom hadn’t expected this. There was no way he would go back inside that building! He turned to his grandfather with a desperate look.

  But the old man seemed unalarmed.

  “What do you say, Tom? Dr. Tarn seems to be offering us a deal.”

  “You’d be coming along with me, Grandpa?”

  “If the doctor has no objection.”

  Tarn looked perplexed, but only for an instant. “We’d be glad to see you both over at Fabricon. You have my card. Why don’t you just get my secretary to set it up? I want your visit to be a very special one.”

  The scientist was already on his feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I still have a busy afternoon ahead of me.”

  He reached for his hat, pressing his fingers together so that tiny flecks of sugar scattered over the table.

  They shook hands. Dr. Tarn gave Tom a last penetrating look. He smiled and turned away.

  No sooner had the door of the diner slammed shut than Tom pounced on his grandfather: “What do you think? Is he on the level or not? And what are we going to do?”

  His grandfather pushed some dark tobacco into his pipe bowl, hesitated, and then moved slowly to the window. Tom followed him anxiously. They stood watching the scientist climb into his blue convertible.

  “I dunno, I really don’t know,” Jack mused. “He may believe what he says — or he may be spouting a line. Did you like the man?”

  “No, I didn’t. He was impressive, almost. Cool. I guess I didn’t dislike him as much as I thought I would.”

  His grandfather nodded. “That’s the way with these characters. But what ideas! You know something, Tom? I think the guy’s clean out of his mind. A real nut and at the same time very clever. The most dangerous type of beast on earth.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Questions in the Dark

  More pizza, Tom?” his mother asked.

  “Sure, thanks. I didn’t know you were going to make it yourself, Mom. … But don’t you want any?”

  She laughed. “I have to think of my waistline! Here, give me your plate. I’ll grab a piece from the kitchen for you.”

  They had been sitting in the living room watching the six o’clock news together, and now, with the sound turned off, Tom was flipping channels aimlessly, up and down, back and forth, past the same scenes and faces. The two portable fans donated by Chuck Reichert made it cooler, he had to admit, yet he regarded them with scorn just because they reminded him of the man himself.

  Of course he was glad his mother wouldn’t be alone so much in the apartment and that she had someone to drive her home every day. The mysterious phone calls, the fact that the man in black might be watching the place, the whole crazy thing with Fabricon — he felt bad about not telling her to be careful, but it would have meant a ton of questions. Since neither he nor grandpa had answers, the questions raised would only make his mother worry out of all proportion.

  “I suppos
e we could have a glass of wine together,” she called out from kitchen. “It’s not legal, but I’m sure you taste the stuff now and then.”

  This was what Tom thought of as a leading statement.

  The occasions when, at his mother’s suggestion, they did something together always had a downside. He appreciated her effort to keep in touch with him; he liked being with her and he respected her intelligence. But at the same time he knew that she would only be happy if she thought he was telling her everything: his real thoughts and fears and hopes, what was happening in his world and among his friends.

  How could he tell her what was happening among his friends? He didn’t go to the parties (and wouldn’t be going tonight, either) and he heard the crazy stuff mostly second-hand when he played pool with Pete or went for bike rides with Bim.

  Did his mother really want to hear that Kim Baker had gone the limit with two boys together in the back of her car last month? That Charlie Allison, stoned out of his mind, had fallen into the river and nearly drowned? That Nat Spivack was ripping off stereos in the suburbs? That two guys on the football team beat up Jim Fossi because they thought he was gay?

  Such things happened all the time, but Tom was pretty sure they weren’t what she wanted to hear.

  And how could he tell her what was in his own mind (it seemed a horrible thing to have to do, anyway) when his feelings soared and sank without warning or cause, when his hopes shifted and changed every week, when his fears centred on things he knew were crazy but couldn’t help wondering about anyway.

  He didn’t want his mother around when he stood in front of the mirror, trying to figure out who he was, worrying about every change in his face and body — the sprouting hair, the pimples, the bags under his eyes. He was always replaying the same questions in his mind. Was he a freak or just like everyone else? Could he make it with girls? Would he be famous and rich? Would he travel around to places like Paris and London and be respected and as cool as anyone?

  If he talked about such things with his mother he knew she would look at him intently and say in her quiet voice, “I’m sure that you can do whatever you set out to do, Tom. If you only work hard enough and don’t lose confidence in yourself.”