The guards understood nothing of the workings and secret purposes of these computers. All they knew was that the computers served yet another machine, one that had come dangerously close to wreaking terrible havoc in the world—and that in the hands of the wrong person it could do so again.
They had no notion of what this other machine looked like, or what it did, but more than a few of them (including Ms. Plugg) imagined it as something huge, spidery, and sinister, with gleaming eyes and countless whirring blades and a shrieking cry like the wail of a buzz saw brought to metal. Indeed, they suspected its appearance was even more beastly and frightening than that; they suspected their imaginations were incapable of evoking the true horror of this unknown machine. They knew only that these computers were its heart and brain (which must, for some unfathomable reason, be protected and preserved), and that in a locked and guarded chamber on the third floor, hidden behind a decorative screen, was a curious chair, and that this chair, too, was somehow linked to the terrible machine.
At least, this was what the guards thought they knew.
The truth was that the chair was the machine itself. The guards’ imaginations had reached in the wrong direction—a reasonable error, for their imaginations had little to guide them. The chair appeared simply to sit there, quiet and still, behind the decorative screen in that cozy chamber. Doing nothing. Threatening nothing. With its curious red helmet attached to the seatback, the chair resembled an old-fashioned hair dryer—an eccentric piece of furniture, certainly, but a harmless one.
This was the Whisperer.
And for the moment, in the hands of Mr. Benedict, the Whisperer was harmless. Indeed, under Mr. Benedict’s care the Whisperer had been made to seem as inoffensive as possible; it had even been made to do a certain amount of good.
Unfortunately, despite Mr. Benedict’s best efforts and intentions, the Whisperer was soon to pass from his care. When it did, the fates of a great many people would once again be pulled along behind it, like leaves trailing in the wake of a speeding vehicle. And the very first to be so affected—and among the most important—were these four children now enjoying the fresh air under the watchful eye of Ms. Plugg.
The rest of the winter passed more or less without incident: Sticky celebrated a housebound birthday, missing yet another optometrist appointment; the ever-exploring Kate discovered what she believed to be new nooks and crannies (she wasn’t entirely sure she knew what a cranny was); Reynie learned a new chess opening and tried parting his hair on the opposite side; and Constance completed an epic poem about pig drool. But none of these events counted as news, exactly, at least not the sort the children so earnestly wished for.
There had been no word on Mr. Curtain’s whereabouts, no hint of progress in the authorities’ search. Nor were there any developments on the home front, for when the children had approached Mr. Benedict about Mr. Bane’s suspicious absences, he had said they were quite right to wonder about it but that he would be imprudent to speak of it further. And so they were left to speculate not only about Mr. Bane, but also about Mr. Benedict’s reasons for maintaining silence on the matter.
Speculating grows wearisome eventually, however, and even secret society meetings lose appeal when there’s nothing new to discuss (especially when the members have already spent too much time together). Time passed slowly for the children, therefore, with lessons every weekday, endless rounds of board games and cards, and never a foot set off the property. Until one day, just as spring was mustering itself for another appearance, something finally happened.
The day began normally enough, with newspapers after breakfast. As usual, Sticky blazed through all of them (Mr. Benedict subscribed to several) while Reynie and Kate traded sections of the Stonetown Times. Whenever they finished a section they would pass it to Constance, who glanced at the headlines and drew mustaches and devil horns on people in the photographs. The children were allowed to linger over the papers as long as they wished, but they seldom lingered long, for the older ones looked forward to their exercises and lessons, which offered a welcome change of pace, and Constance ran out of pictures to deface.
On this morning Sticky finished even more quickly than usual, then hustled off to find Number Two, who was letting him use her computer to access the Stonetown Library catalog. He was in the process of memorizing it, had already spent hours scrolling through the records, and today he hoped to finish. It had been tedious work, but it would make his future research more efficient, and Sticky was excited.
“I would have thought Mr. Benedict had every book in the world,” Kate had said when Sticky first mentioned his project. “The whole house is crammed with them.”
“I know,” said Sticky with an eager, appreciative look, “and I still haven’t read half of them, but whenever—”
“You’ve read half of them?” Kate cried, but Sticky was just gaining steam.
“—but whenever a bibliography mentions a book that Mr. Benedict doesn’t have, there’s nothing to do but request it from the library, right? And if the Stonetown Library system doesn’t have it, then I have to ask for an inter-library loan, which means filling out a different form altogether. So think of how much faster the process will be when I can skip the catalog and go straight to the appropriate form! I’ll still have to wait until errand day to get the books, of course, but it’s much…”
“Naturally,” said Kate, who hadn’t really been listening. “But let me just be clear—you’ve read half the books in this house? This whole house?”
“Well, approximately half,” Sticky said. “To be more accurate, I suppose I’ve read more like”—his eyes went up as he calculated—“three-sevenths? Yes, three-sevenths.”
“Only three-sevenths?” said Kate, pretending to look disappointed. “And here I was prepared to be impressed.”
After Sticky had gone out, Kate and Reynie discussed the newspaper articles they had read, almost all of which were about Stonetown having fallen on hard times. The city’s government bureaucracy was terribly snarled, its budget a wreck. And what Kate and Reynie knew that most readers could not know—because the information was still classified—was that Ledroptha Curtain was much to blame.
“I used to think the Emergency was boring to read about,” Kate observed. “But at least it was dramatic. This is just a tiresome mess. Sometimes I wonder if they’ll ever get it straightened out.”
Reynie had wondered this himself. After all, more than a year had passed since the Whisperer had stopped sending messages into the minds of the public—no longer was Mr. Curtain secretly creating the fearful, confused, desperate atmosphere known as the Emergency—and according to Mr. Benedict the mental effects of those messages had almost entirely disappeared. And yet Stonetown, one of the world’s most important cities, was having difficulty paying its own bills and cleaning its own streets. Mental effects were one thing, Mr. Benedict had said, and practical effects quite another.
Reynie shrugged. “Mr. Benedict says it could take a long time. He says it’s hard to fix a problem when so few people know the cause.”
“That’s what’s irritating about it,” Kate said. “The fact that it’s classified. I mean, even most of the people in the government don’t know the truth. Milligan says some officials insist on keeping it secret.”
“It’s because they’re embarrassed,” Constance put in, without glancing up from her work. (She was busy giving the mayor crossed eyes and insect antennae.) “They don’t want people to know they were duped by Mr. Curtain just like everyone else.”
Reynie and Kate looked at her in surprise. Constance rarely paid attention to these newspaper conversations, and when she did it was usually to complain that they’d said the same things a thousand times. (Which was true enough, but they found it impolite of her to mention.)
“I think you’re probably right,” Reynie said. “But I also think Mr. Curtain’s spies might have something to do with it. They could be working to keep the information secret… but that�
�s just a guess. I don’t know what their motives would be, or even who any of them are, and Mr. Benedict won’t ever talk to us about them.”
“And why is that, Reynie?” Constance asked, propping her chin on her hand and affecting a look of serious interest.
Now Reynie was really suspicious. But before he could ask Constance what she was up to, Miss Perumal entered the room carrying a file folder. She and Rhonda were the children’s primary instructors (though all the adults pitched in from time to time), and as she approached the table, her expression was so determined—and so resolutely cheerful—that Reynie knew she must be coming to work with Constance. Or try to, anyway. Yesterday it had been Rhonda’s turn, and the day before that it had been Mrs. Washington’s, and before that it had been Moocho’s. None had had the slightest bit of luck. Constance might labor for hours on tasks of her own choosing, but she positively detested any work assigned to her.
“Oh, I’ll do those exercises later, Miss Perumal,” Constance said before Miss Perumal had even spoken. “Right now I’m discussing the newspaper with Reynie and Kate.”
A look of understanding passed between Reynie and Kate. Constance must have known Miss Perumal was coming down the hallway.
“Is that so?” Miss Perumal said, carefully keeping any hint of disbelief out of her tone. “That’s lovely, Constance. But why don’t we get these exercises over with? Mr. Benedict designed them especially for you, you know.”
Constance frowned. “I don’t care. They’re boring.”
“But you haven’t even looked at them,” Miss Perumal said, passing a hand over her fine black hair as if to smooth it. Reynie recognized this as a sign of impatience; he’d often seen her do the same thing when disagreeing with her mother. “I think you’ll be surprised—”
Constance made a gagging sound.
Miss Perumal pressed her lips together. “I thought we might do a craft project afterward,” she said after a pause. “Once you’ve finished the exercises, I could show you how to make a sugar-cube igloo.”
Constance looked at her out of the corners of her eyes. “You make the igloo out of… sugar cubes?”
“Why, yes,” Miss Perumal said matter-of-factly. “And you use cake frosting to serve as a sort of glue. You don’t eat any of it, of course—it’s just for fun.”
“No… no, of course,” said Constance, suppressing a smile.
“Bribery,” Reynie muttered to Kate, who rolled her eyes.
“Well, that sounds great!” Constance said, climbing down from her chair. “Let’s do the igloo first!”
Miss Perumal shook her head firmly. “No, Constance. First the exercises, then—”
“Yes! It’s igloo time, Miss Perumal! This’ll be fun!” She was running for the door, speaking loudly so as not to hear Miss Perumal’s protests. “I’ll get the sugar cubes—I know where Moocho hides them!” And then she was gone, leaving Miss Perumal to stare bleakly after her.
“Nice try, Amma,” said Reynie, grinning, and Kate laughed and patted Miss Perumal’s arm sympathetically.
“I had so hoped that would work,” Miss Perumal sighed, absently straightening Reynie’s collar. “I admit it was a desperate trick.” She forced a smile and moved toward the door. “Mrs. Washington will be in soon to work with you two. Rhonda is assisting Mr. Benedict this morning, and I’m with Constance until lunchtime.”
“What’s for lunch today, Miss Perumal, do you know?” Kate asked.
“I hope it’s headache medicine,” Miss Perumal replied, and went out.
Lunch was always an extravagant affair, in part because Moocho Brazos delighted in serving elaborate meals, and in part because lunch and dinner were the only times that all of the house’s occupants were together. Even then Mr. Benedict was often absent, for his work spared few interruptions, and he and Number Two would only pass through, loading plates to carry away. Today, however, everyone was present but Milligan, and as usual there was much “clatter and chatter,” as Constance had put it in one of her poems, “and tedious talk about what was the matter.”
The real matter, today, was Constance herself, but it wasn’t discussed until most of the dishes were cleared and Constance (having failed to grumble her way out of kitchen duty) had trudged out with Miss Perumal and Moocho.
“She’s only four, of course,” Mr. Benedict was saying, “and barely that. Her lack of interest in these exercises is perfectly understandable. By all rights she ought to be playing, and I’ve thought it best not to press her. Still, it seems important to be alert to developments in her abilities, the better to guide her through.”
“You’re quite right,” said Mrs. Washington. She turned to her husband. “Haven’t we often wished we’d had a better idea of Sticky’s gifts when he was that age?”
Mr. Washington nodded, which for him constituted a lengthy response, as he was reticent by nature. A slender, bespectacled man, Mr. Washington resembled a taller version of his son—even more so lately, for he’d begun shaving his own head whenever he shaved Sticky’s, just as something to do. (There were only so many improvement projects he could undertake with so many people in the house, and Mr. Washington, a skilled carpenter accustomed to hard work, was desperate for activity.)
“If we had done similar exercises with Sticky,” Mrs. Washington continued, her tone suddenly regretful, “perhaps we’d have made fewer mistakes. Don’t you think, dear?”
Mr. Washington considered this, then nodded.
“We learn from our mistakes, though,” said Rhonda mildly. “And Sticky has turned out wonderfully well, hasn’t he?”
Mrs. Washington’s face lit up. “Oh yes, he has! Of course he has!” she cried (as Mr. Washington nodded), and both beamed fondly at their son.
Their son, meanwhile, squirmed in his seat. These days almost anything Sticky’s parents said about him embarrassed him—they might have said “Sticky likes salt on his potatoes” and still he would have winced—but public adoration was more embarrassing by far. It was all he could do not to reach for his spectacles.
“We are none of us impervious to error,” said Mr. Benedict. “I least of all. It was not so long ago, you’ll recall, that I failed to perceive the character of my brother’s plottings, to the great detriment of everyone here. So focused was I on protecting the Whisperer, I completely overlooked the possibility of Ledroptha’s capturing me as a means of reclaiming it. A foolish mistake indeed, and I—”
“Mr. Benedict!” snapped Number Two, who in the midst of peeling an orange (she always followed lunch with a snack) slapped it down with such force that juice squirted across the table into Reynie’s eye. “Sorry, sorry,” she said as Mrs. Perumal handed Reynie a damp napkin, “but I simply cannot bear to hear such talk.”
Pointing her finger accusingly at Mr. Benedict, Number Two said, “You spend so little time thinking of yourself that it was a natural mistake. You can’t blame yourself for your brother’s treachery!”
Everyone seconded Number Two’s sentiment, but Mr. Benedict, acknowledging this with a grateful inclination of his head, persisted, “Nevertheless, I cannot say too often how deeply I regret the circumstances it has created for you all. I feel that—” Here his speech faltered, and his bright green eyes glistened all the more brightly with tears. (Kate discreetly took hold of his teacup, ready to slide it away if Mr. Benedict slumped forward.)
“But you have said it too often, Mr. Benedict!” said Mrs. Perumal in an imperious tone that was quite out of character. “And if you continue in this vein, I’m afraid we’ll be compelled to cut our visit short. Surely there are other establishments that would host an entire troop of guests—indefinitely and without reward—and not feel obliged to apologize for it!”
For an instant only Reynie knew that his grandmother was joking; everyone else sat in startled silence. Then Mr. Benedict erupted into his high-spirited laugh (that peculiar, familiar laugh that sounded so much like a dolphin), and the whole table soon followed suit. Everyone laughed until their eyes
watered, especially after Mrs. Perumal, who at first had succeeded in maintaining her haughty air, finally broke down into giggles herself. Mr. Benedict, having narrowly escaped falling asleep from regret, now came close to doing so from mirth.
At last the jollity subsided, and Mr. Benedict removed his spectacles to dab at his eyes with a napkin, saying, “Thank you, Mrs. Perumal, for lightening the mood. I daresay we all needed that.” Resettling the spectacles on his nose, he took out his pocket watch, frowned, and grew businesslike again.
“I’m expecting visitors,” Mr. Benedict said, “but before they arrive I must return to Constance a moment. As I said, I do feel compelled to press her a bit, and toward this end I should like to enlist Reynie, Sticky, and Kate in an experiment. Provided you’re willing, of course,” he said to the children, “and only with your parents’ permission.”
When Miss Perumal had been sent for (she hurried in from the kitchen wearing sudsy gloves and a look of relief), Mr. Benedict explained his idea. After a brief discussion, the parents all granted their permission, and the children—somewhat reluctantly—agreed to help.
“I’ll have to ask Milligan when he gets back,” said Kate, whose father had been called away on a secret matter the day before.
“Actually, I’ve already secured his permission,” said Mr. Benedict, “but you can discuss it with him later if you like. He’s just returned.”
“He has?” Kate cried, jumping up.
Sure enough, they could all hear Milligan whistling in the hallway (he was a supremely talented whistler), and the next moment he burst into the dining room, arms stretched wide in greeting. Kate flew to him happily—she was always relieved when he came home safe—and he laughed as she hugged him, taking a few steps backward to absorb her momentum and calling out a cheerful “Hello, hello!” to everyone else.
The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Prisoner's Dilemma Page 4
