Mercury Man (11 page)

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.”

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 suppose 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.”

She might say that, but she would never say, “It might have happened. You might have achieved anything if that father of yours had stuck around and paid a few of the bills.”

How could he tell her what was bothering him now? While they were walking home from Damato's his grandfather had reminded him that it was too soon to say a thing.

“We've got to do some work,” he'd insisted. “We've got to start asking questions. When we go over to
Fabricon we should know a whole lot more than we know now. You've got to talk to your friends, get some evidence of … whatever's happening. And we've got to challenge that watcher fella. All that highfalutin' talk from Tarn and he's got some goon spying on us!”

Tom's mother appeared from the kitchen, put the pizza slice and the wine on the little table in front of him, and gently reached out to take the remote from his hands.

He pulled it away from her, too roughly, and she protested.

Suddenly he felt terrible. He flipped off the set and handed her the instrument.

“I'm just fed up with staring at that silly box,” she said, and tossed the remote at nearby chair. Her aim was poor and the instrument clattered on the floor. The batteries popped out and rolled away.

Tom jumped up to collect them. “Good shot, Mom,” he said, and they laughed together.

There was a knock at the door, and he clutched the batteries tightly in his hand.

“I'll get it, Mom.”

He opened the door with some trepidation and frowned at the figure standing there.

It was Bim Bavasi, wearing a jacket, a maroon turtleneck, and fresh jeans. His dark hair was cut in a new way, a bit fussy and artificial, and his hands were busy with a cigarette.

Tom, a little taken aback, blustered, “Bim! Great to see you. I got your note.”

“So? You ready to go?”

“Go where?”

“The party, stupid! I'm supposed to pick you up.”

“Who said that?”

“Estella. She told me you'd go if I picked you up.”

“I never said I'd go.”

“Who's that at the door?” his mother called out. She came around the chairs, carrying her wine glass, and nodded to Bim.

“Why don't you invite your friend in?”

Tom saw Bim's look, the young male sizing up an older woman, taking in her dress and figure, and a black anger seized him.

“I'll call you tomorrow,” he said and shoved at the door.

“Hey! Wait a minute!” Bim stuck his foot out and blocked it. “I heard about your trip to Fabricon. Were you stoned or something? What the hell's going on?”

“I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“What's the matter with you? There's a celebration. A real party this time. Everybody's coming. Even Maggie Stevenson. You mean you're going to pass up an evening with those fabulous breasts?”

“Shut up, will you!” Tom felt his face flare red. “I'll call you tomorrow, Bim. I gotta go now.”

His friend took a step back. He shrugged his shoulders, his dark eyes glittered, his face twisted into a smile that was partially a sneer.
Smoking up
, Tom thought. And the guy has to come here!

He shut the door quickly. He wished to hell Bim had stayed in the country.

“Was that Bim Bavasi?” his mother called out to him. She had filled up her wine glass and was sitting on the couch, not looking at him at all. “I don't know why you can't invite your friends in.”

She went on in a low voice, still not looking at him, as he tried to slip past her, sliding around the couch toward the safety of his room.

“We don't have much of a place, I guess, but they
are
your friends. When I was a kid we didn't care so much about those things. … I thought Bim looked so nice in that jacket. I wish you'd dress up sometimes, Tom. You'd look so great in that cashmere your grandfather bought you. Don't you ever want to go to the parties? God! Those college parties! I used to love them. The engineers used to come over from Tech. I would end up dancing on the tables … Of course we were a bit older.”

“I'm going out for a walk, Mom.” He thought if he stayed there a minute longer he'd suffocate.

“But you haven't finished your pizza. And I thought we were going to have a glass of wine together.”

“You keep the pizza hot, Mom. I got some money today and I'm dying to get the new
Heavy Metal
. Don't worry, I'll be right back.”