The Switch by Anthony Horowitz

lights. Video surveillance cameras swiveled to follow them as they walked and a hidden air-conditioning system whispered all around them. Tad glanced through a large plate-glass window where test tubes and bottles, glass pipes and burners fought for desk space with computers and CDs and machines so complicated that he could only guess at their use. A man and a woman, both in white coats, came down the corridor the other way and passed them without speaking. Somewhere an intercom called out: “Dr. Eastman to room 113, please. Dr. Eastman to room 113.”
    He had barely glimpsed the Center as he had been led out of the van and into the nearest building. From the outside it looked like an ordinary industrial park: a cluster of dull redbrick buildings with frosted-glass windows allowing no view in or out. True, it was surrounded by a high wire fence with an electric security barrier permanently manned by a uniformed guard. But there was nothing unusual about that. People who lived nearby (and the Center was surrounded by ordinary houses) probably thought it was a small factory. If they ever thought about it at all.
    Marion Thorn had reached a door and was punching in a combination number on the electronic panel next to it. Tad stopped. “Where are we?” he demanded. “What’s going on?”
    There was a buzz and the door clicked open. “In here, please, Bob,” she said.
    The room was a doctor’s office. If Tad had been uneasy before, he was now positively alarmed. But, following Marion’s pointing hand, he sat down on a narrow bed. A second door opened and two men came in. Both were short and round with curly black hair and wide, loose mouths. Both were bearded. It took Tad a second to realize that they were identical twins. He grimaced, wondering if he were dreaming. Tweedledum and Tweedledee in white coats with stethoscopes! What next?
    That question was soon answered as the two men began a medical examination that started at Tad’s head and went inch by inch all the way to his toes. The doctors—if that’s what they were—seemed particularly interested in his hair, his teeth, his eyes and his skin.
    “Excellent condition.”
    “Unusually good. Yes. Good dermatology . . .”
    “Yes . . .”
    They spoke to each other in short, clipped sentences. But never did they say a word to Tad. Lying on the bed, he felt like a piece of meat in a butcher’s shop and he was relieved when it was finally over.
    One of the doctors nodded at Marion. “You can take him down.”
    “Down where?” Tad demanded. He was angry now.
    “This way, Bob.” Marion opened the door.
    Tad didn’t speak as Marion led him back down the corridor to a wide area with a series of elevators. Various thoughts were turning over in his mind and none of them were very pleasant. If ACID really wanted to help him, they had an odd way of going about it. He wondered if his father had any idea what went on in the Center. This place was beginning to turn his stomach—and he decided to get out the first moment he could.
    The elevator arrived and he and Marion got in.
    “Up?” Tad asked.
    “Down,” Marion replied. Tad glanced at the panel beside the door. The elevator didn’t have any buttons. The doors closed and it began to descend as if it had a mind of its own.
    “Where are we going, exactly?” Tad demanded.
    “You’ll find out, Bob.” Marion’s voice was as calm as ever. “We’re going to help you. But first we want you to help us . . .”
    The elevator stopped. The doors opened. Tad stepped out and stared.
    He was in a huge, vaulted chamber. It could have been an underground health club, a hospital or a television studio . . . His first impressions were of all three. First there were the showers and baths with steam rising into the air. Then there were what looked to be orderlies, doctors and scientists, dressed in white, bustling about with trolleys piled high with bottles, basins, bandages and the occasional syringe. And finally there were