The Mysterious Benedict Society (32 page)

“Some guard,” said a groggy voice from beneath the covers.

“Anyway,” Sticky said, “we’re glad you’re here. We have some news.”

He and Reynie held up their new uniforms.

“Messengers!” Kate exclaimed. “I can’t believe it! And here we were worried you’d gotten in big trouble!”

Constance sat up, rubbed her eyes, and squinted at the uniforms.

“Oh, yes,” Reynie said with a laugh. “So worried that you both fell asleep.”

Kate gave him a disapproving look. “We
were
worried,” she insisted. “And I’m sure Mr. Benedict is, too. We told him you’d been called to see Mr. Curtain. We should let him know the good news right away.”

“You sent a report?” Sticky asked, surprised.

“Took us forever,” Constance said, stretching. “Morse code’s a little rusty.”

Rusty
was not exactly the word for Constance’s Morse code, but the boys resisted comment. They were both glad to hear a report had been sent. They’d been unable to send one the night before — a night crew of Helpers had been working on the plaza, filling cracks and replacing broken stones.

Sticky climbed onto the television, made sure the coast was clear, and began flashing a message.

“Our ‘special privileges’ begin tomorrow,” Reynie told the girls. “That’s all he told us.”

“Nervous?” Kate asked.

“What do you think?” Reynie said. “I feel like I swallowed a beehive.”

“Here comes a response,” Sticky said from the window.
“Glad… proud… now pay attention.”

“Sounds like he’s about to tell us something important,” Reynie said. He went over and peered out the window with Sticky. Sure enough, the light in the woods continued flashing its coded message:

With open eyes now you may find

A place you must exit to enter.

Where one —

“Where one what?” Sticky said, when the message broke off and didn’t resume. “Why did they stop?”

Reynie groaned. “It’s Mr. Curtain,” he said, pointing. “He’s going out onto the plaza.”

“Now?”
Sticky hissed, watching the familiar figure rolling into view below. “In the middle of the message? He couldn’t have waited twenty more seconds?”

“At least we have a start,” Reynie said.

But a start was all they had, for even after a long discussion, the children were left stymied. The last, unfinished line gave no clue at all, and the first seemed pointless, as it hardly seemed necessary to tell them they needed to keep their eyes open. Which left only the middle line, and that one utterly baffled them. How on earth could you enter a place by exiting it?

“We’ll have to try again tomorrow,” Kate said finally, stifling a yawn. “I can’t think straight anymore tonight. At least you boys made Messenger. That’s an encouraging development.”

The others agreed, the meeting adjourned, and in a few minutes the girls had disappeared into the ceiling and the boys had gone to bed. Reynie had just begun to compose a mental letter to Miss Perumal when Sticky whispered into the darkness.

“Reynie, you awake?”

“Wide awake,” Reynie replied.

“I wanted to ask you… does this ‘encouraging development’ scare the wits out of you as much as it does me?”

Reynie laughed. “It may be the worst encouraging development I’ve ever experienced.”

In the bunk below, Sticky laughed, too. Their laughter relaxed them the tiniest bit — and that was all it took. In moments their exhaustion overcame them, and both boys fell asleep.

W
hen the knock sounded on his door, Reynie was in the midst of a terrible dream. He had written down his letters to Miss Perumal, and Jackson, having found the letters on the desk, was pounding them with his fist.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“We’ve got you!” he cried with a wicked laugh. “Don’t worry, you won’t be punished! It’s the Waiting Room for you — what
fun
you’ll have there! And when you’ve disappeared beneath the stinking mud for good, we’ll get your beloved Miss Perumal, too!”

“No!”

“What do you mean, ‘No’?” said Jackson. “Isn’t this what you’ve been working for?”

This was an unexpected response, and Reynie, startled, opened his eyes. Jackson stood in the doorway, staring at Reynie with an expression of wild impatience.

“I’m sorry,” Reynie said, coming fully awake. “I was dreaming. What did you say?”

“I said hurry up and get your tunic on. I’m to take you to Mr. Curtain immediately. Today’s your big day! Special privileges, Reynard! Now wake up your skinny bald friend and hustle, will you? I want to get a muffin on the way.” Jackson stepped out of the room to wait.

When, after considerable shaking, Reynie had roused Sticky, the two of them threw on their Messenger uniforms.

“This is it,” Reynie whispered. “We have to be on our toes.”

Sticky nodded. “Good luck.”

They shook hands resolutely.

“It’s about time,” Jackson muttered when they came out. “Now follow me.” He set off in double-time for the cafeteria. It was just before dawn, with no one astir but a few silent Helpers mopping floors, sweeping walkways, or scaling ladders to scrub mildew from ceilings. In the cafeteria, too, the Helpers were already hard at work. Jackson helped himself to a freshly baked blueberry muffin and a glass of cold milk. “Better choke something down quick,” he said to the boys. “You don’t want to be in the Whisperer with an empty stomach. It’s very draining. You need all the energy you can get.”

At this, the first open mention of the Whisperer, goose bumps rose on the boys’ arms. Their stomachs flipped, too, but dutifully they reached for muffins and milk and, just as Jackson said, choked them down. Sticky, already losing his nerve, couldn’t help trying to stall. “What about classes?”

“What do you think all those classes are
for
, George? I don’t see how you’ve ever made Messenger if that’s how dimwitted you are. You’ll have plenty of time for classes after your session. The Whisperer is what’s important, boys. It’s the whole reason we’re here.”

After all the secrecy that had come before, it was very strange indeed — in fact it was thrilling — to be spoken to with such candor and trust. They really were Messengers at last! Reynie almost had to remind himself that his new position wasn’t an honor to be prized.

“All right, then, swallow and follow,” said Jackson, turning on his heel. The boys gulped their milk and hurried after him. Out on the plaza, in the gray light of dawn, Jackson ordered them to stand still. “If you ever become Executives,” he said, tying cloths over their eyes, “then you’ll be allowed to learn the route to the Whispering Gallery. Until then, it’s blindfolds and no talking. Understand? Now, then, round and round you go.” He grabbed their shoulders and spun them about until they were so dizzy they stumbled and bumped into each other. Jackson allowed himself a moment to laugh. Then he took them by the elbows and set off.

They were marched across the plaza, down a walkway, and finally over a patch of grass. Then came a sort of scuffing, thumping noise — it sounded like Jackson kicking something out of the way with his boot — and the boys were led inside. They went down a short passage, then up some winding stone steps. And then more winding steps. Steps after steps after steps. They must be heading up to the top of the flag tower, Reynie thought. No other place in the Institute could have so many steps.

With their leg muscles burning and chests heaving, the boys finally reached the top. Jackson gave them a few good spins — perhaps just for the fun of it — and removed their blindfolds. They stood in a bright, narrow stone passage. Before them loomed a great metal door.

Jackson pressed a speaker button on the wall. “Your new Messengers are here, sir.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Curtain’s voice through the speaker.

The door slid heavily open.

“What are you waiting for?” Jackson said. He gestured impatiently, mumbling something about numbskulls not taking hints, and the boys stepped through the open doorway. The door slid closed behind them.

“Welcome to the Whispering Gallery!” said Mr. Curtain, spinning his wheelchair away from the desk at which he’d been working. He beckoned them forward with a crook of his finger. “Come in, boys, and take a look around!”

The Whispering Gallery, though quite large, was furnished only with a single desk, two cushions in the corner, and, in the center of the room, a strange contraption resembling an old-fashioned beauty-salon hair dryer. So this was the Whisperer: an oversized metal armchair with a blue helmet bolted to the seatback, and another helmet (this one red) protruding into empty air behind it. It looked surprisingly simple — no running lights, computer screens, or whirring gizmos — and indeed, considering its purpose, the entire room seemed simple. Smooth, uniform stone walls, a lack of furniture or decoration, and only a single window.

Kate was right, Reynie thought. There
is
something important behind the highest window.

“If you’re wondering why the Whispering Gallery is so austere,” said Mr. Curtain, “the answer is security. You will find no heavy metal objects or sharp devices lying about, nothing with which my Whisperer might be damaged, nothing to be used as a weapon. The Whisperer’s computer system and power supply are safely protected by two feet of metal and stone. The walls are solid stone as well. The door through which you entered is the only door, and I am the only one who can open it. Control, boys! Control is key. The Whispering Gallery is perfectly controlled.

“I say all this to impress upon you the importance of our project,” Mr. Curtain continued. He gestured for them to sit on the cushions. “Why else would such security be necessary? It is a great honor to be made Messenger, and I hope you will not squander it.”

“No, sir,” the boys said together.

“Here, at last, is your special privilege,” said Mr. Curtain. “Only Messengers are allowed to help me with my project, and you may be assured it is a
marvelous
project. Now, I’m sure you’re wondering what the Whisperer is — am I right?”

The boys nodded.

“Of course I am. My machine cannot help but provoke curiosity. It looks simple, does it not? Only a chair with a helmet? Don’t be fooled! The Whisperer is a miraculous invention —
my
miraculous invention — and is sophisticated beyond reckoning. Have you ever heard of a machine capable of transmitting thoughts? Of course not! Would you even have thought it possible? Never! And yet it
is
possible. My Whisperer makes it possible.”

Mr. Curtain waved elegantly at the contraption behind him, rather like a game show hostess displaying fabulous prizes. “It has been fashioned with the human brain as a model —
my
human brain, in fact, which as you might suspect is quite an excellent one. And it is my brain that controls it! No need for keyboards and computer screens, knobs and dials, bells and whistles. The Whisperer
listens
to me. For not only is it capable of transmitting thought, but also — to a certain extent — of
perceiving
thought. And although currently its proper function depends upon my being present and connected —”

“You mean you have to be hooked up for it to work?” Sticky blurted.

Mr. Curtain’s wheelchair rolled forward until the front wheels pressed the edge of Sticky’s cushion. Mr. Curtain’s reflective glasses and protuberant nose eased toward Sticky’s face like a snake testing the air. “You are only a child, George, so I do not expect much of you,” Mr. Curtain said coolly, “but if you are to be a Messenger you must be made aware of something. I do not take kindly to interruption.”

“Sorry,” Sticky mumbled, looking down.

“Good,” said Mr. Curtain. “And yes, I must be ‘hooked up’ for it to work — for now. It is undergoing modification, you see. For years I have employed the Whisperer as an… educational tool. But greater things are in store. Once my modifications are complete, the Whisperer will become a wondrous
healing
device, boys — a device capable of curing maladies of the mind. No, it’s perfectly true! I see the surprise on your faces. But I assure you, my invention is destined to bring peace to thousands — perhaps even millions — of troubled souls. And you boys will have played a part. Is it not exciting?”

As if to demonstrate his excitement, Mr. Curtain shot backward in his wheelchair at breakneck speed, screeching to a stop beside his desk. (
His entire life must feel like an amusement-park ride,
Reynie thought.) A moment later he had shot back over to the boys with a brown package in his hands.

“What you are wondering
now
,” Mr. Curtain said, “is how Messengers play a part. The answer is this: The Whisperer requires the assistance of unsophisticated minds.
Children’s
minds. You see, though my machine is stunningly complex, its mental processes still pale in comparison to my own. For the Whisperer to do, well, certain things I
wish
it to do — I will not waste time explaining details you cannot comprehend — my thoughts must first pass through a less sophisticated mind. This is where my Messengers come in.

“Now, do not be daunted,” Mr. Curtain went on. “It’s an easy matter. When you occupy the seat, the Whisperer directs you to think certain phrases — it whispers to you, do you see? — and when you think these phrases, the Whisperer’s transmitters do the rest. Your function is that of a filter: my thoughts, once they pass through your minds, are more easily processed. Do you understand what I mean by this?”

“They go down easier,” Reynie said. “Like candy rather than medicine.”

“Precisely!” said Mr. Curtain, seeming pleased. “But the thoughts
will
be medicine, make no doubt of that — one day soon they will be medicine for countless minds. For now, our project consists of inputting data. Which is to say, we are filling the Whisperer’s computer bank with necessary information.”

So
this
was the explanation Mr. Curtain gave his Messengers: “inputting data.” They weren’t even told they were actually sending messages — that they themselves were whispering to others!