Mercury Man by Tom Henighan Page B

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.
    â€œYOU 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.
    â€œDon’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.
    â€œC’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.
    â€œBring 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.
    â€œDon’t you know you’re not supposed to clean in there? Didn’t you read the sign?” the first man said.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œCan 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