“Did he get anything?” Reynie whispered to Kate, so as not to disturb Sticky.
“You don’t have to whisper,” Sticky said. “I did get a little, and I’ll get more if he’ll just write anything. He’s on a fresh page, but now he’s gazing away again.”
“Only a little?” Reynie said.
“He was turning the pages pretty fast. . . .”
“Sorry, I tried to stall him as best I could.”
“And I could only see a small part of each page,” Sticky said. He glanced down at Reynie with an impish smile. “But I do remember what I saw.”
“Is it any good?” Reynie asked.
“Beats me. I haven’t had time to think about it. There’s a difference between remembering and thinking, at least for me.” He returned to the spyglass. “Could you see us at all?”
“Kate’s forearms and your elbows, but you’re pretty well hidden,” Reynie said. “Anyway, from below it’s impossible to see what you’re doing.”
“What about from above?” Sticky asked. “Are we still clear in that direction?”
Reynie turned to check on Constance. It was good that he did. Constance was hurrying down the path toward them. For Constance, though, “hurrying” meant running a few steps and tripping, running a few steps more and stumbling. . . .
And walking about twenty yards behind her was Jackson.
“Jackson’s coming!” Reynie hissed.
He was immediately knocked to the ground. Sticky, in his fright, had fallen off Kate’s back and crashed onto Reynie. The spyglass flew out of Sticky’s hand and onto the gravel path . . . and before the boys could gather themselves, Jackson had brushed past Constance — knocking her roughly to her knees — and was upon them. “What’s going on here?”
“We were . . . trying to make a human pyramid,” Reynie said.
“A human pyramid? With three kids?” Jackson said with a sneer. “That’s pathetic. And what’s this?” He had seen the spyglass and was bending to pick it up.
Kate sprang forward and snatched it away. “It’s mine, that’s what it is!”
Jackson stared at Kate, amazed a student had spoken to him that way. Then his amazement gave way to anger. “You’ll show it to me here,” he said in a threatening voice, “or else in the Waiting Room. It’s your choice, Wetherall.”
Kate stared back at him, defiant. The others held their breath.
“Fine,” Jackson said with a smile. He was beginning to enjoy himself. “Let me just tell you how this works. I’m about to grab your arm — and I intend to squeeze so hard it hurts — and escort you to the Waiting Room. If you try to run away or fight me, I’ll personally see to it that you get kicked out of the Institute . . . after you go to the Waiting Room. How does that sound?”
Kate had no choice. Reluctantly she held out the spyglass. As Jackson snatched it from her grasp, Sticky turned away, his face hidden in his hands. He couldn’t bear to look.
Jackson burst into laughter. “A kaleidoscope? You risked going to the Waiting Room for a kaleidoscope?” He put his eye to the lens.
“Yes, but it’s my kaleidoscope,” Kate said.
“Well, you can keep it,” Jackson said in disgust. He handed Kate her spyglass back. “This is the sorriest kaleidoscope I’ve ever seen.”
Reynie grimaced his way through studytime, trying to ignore a broadcast that went on for two hours. After it ended, Reynie noticed Sticky was still grimacing. Sticky had spent all of studytime reproducing what he’d seen in Mr. Curtain’s journal and was still at his desk. “What’s the matter?” Reynie asked him. “Forget something?”
Sticky groaned. “Forgetting isn’t the problem. Art is the problem.” He threw down his pencil. “There was a diagram in there, but I can’t draw worth a flip. Words and numbers, yes. Pictures? Hopeless.”
“You can always try again,” Reynie said, looking over Sticky’s shoulder at the drawing. It seemed to depict a mound of spaghetti with numbered meatballs. “We have a minute before lights out. It’ll be easier if you don’t have to use the flashlight.”
“Flashlight or floodlight, it won’t matter. I’d do just as well in the dark. This was my fourth try. It was supposed to be a diagram of Mr. Curtain’s brain, with lots of numbers on every region.”
Reynie stared doubtfully at the picture. “Are you sure it was Mr. Curtain’s brain?”
“It said ‘MY BRAIN’ at the top of the page.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t suppose there was a key to those numbers, was there? Or an explanation of the diagram?”
Sticky shook his head. “Not on that page.”
Reynie patted him on the back. “Then don’t worry about it. We don’t need a diagram to know what a brain looks like.”
Sticky’s face shone with relief. “Really? Oh, I hoped you would say that!” He tore the page into tiny bits. Reynie helped him shred the other attempted drawings, too, most of which resembled misshapen balls of yarn with numbered threads. They finished just as the girls made their appearance in the ceiling.
Everyone was eager to begin. In no time the lights were off and they were all seated in a circle on the floor.
“Okay, I have all the entries written down,” said Sticky, showing them a thin stack of papers. “They cover a lot of time — the first is from years ago, and the last was written today. Shall I read them aloud?”
The others agreed, and so, starting with the first entry, Sticky read:
No one seems to realize how much we are driven by FEAR, the essential component of human personality. Everything else — from ambition to love to despair — derives in some way from this single powerful emotion. Must find the best way to make use of this.
“Well, that’s cheery,” Kate said.
“I’ll bet Mr. Curtain’s just a big scaredy cat,” Constance said. “So he thinks everyone else is, too.”
Sticky, who happened to consider himself a prime specimen of scaredy cat, moved on without comment. The next entry, he said, was dated a year later:
Much to my disappointment, I have concluded there is no such thing as perfect control. I have come to understand, however, that the illusion of perfect control can amount to the same thing.
“He’s all about illusions,” Reynie reflected. “The Institute’s ‘lack of rules’ is an illusion, not to mention its excellent reputation. And the Emergency, too — the hidden messages make everything seem more hopeless and out of control than it really is. But then where is this illusion of control?”
“I didn’t see anything about that,” Sticky replied. He glanced at his papers. “The next few entries are all about using children as filters to keep the messages hidden. It’s nothing we don’t know. I’ll skip them for now. I’m afraid the next part is a bit technical. Ready?”
The others said they were (though Constance squeezed her eyes shut as if expecting it to hurt), and Sticky continued:
Brainsweeping a success! High-power, close-contact transmission works perfectly well as a forcible procedure! Retraining should also succeed: ‘Contentment’ messages will 1) counteract a brainswept individual’s tendency to question, and 2) lessen the chronic mournfulness effect.
Predicted side effects of retraining: timidity, anxiety, self-doubt.
Conclusion: satisfactory.
Constance put her hands on her head. “Umm . . .”
“Brainsweeping must be Mr. Curtain’s term for destroying people’s memories,” Reynie said. “If they’re in his machine — I think that’s what he means by ‘close-contact transmission’ — then he can brainsweep them against their will, which is what he means by ‘forcible.’ That must be what happened to Milligan, except Milligan got away before Mr. Curtain could ‘retrain’ him.”
“But the other agents weren’t so lucky,” Sticky said. “Mr. Curtain retrained them with ‘contentment’ messages that tell them not to question anything!”
“And to feel less sad,” Kate said. “But that part must not have worked so well. They all still suffer from tha
t pesky ‘chronic mournfulness effect.’”
“There’s more about it in the next entry,” Sticky said.
Long-term brainsweeping and retraining results mixed: Helpers manageable but still dispirited. Worse, too-frequent relapse of memory, often in association with trigger object. Typical episode begins with the last important thing remembered: names of significant persons, unfulfilled obligations, etc. Most irritating. Note: Two of last four episodes occurred near mirrors. Reflection must be promoting self-identification. Solution: Remove mirrors.
Kate rubbed her hands together. “Now I’m really starting to feel like a secret agent. We’re figuring things out! What’s next, Sticky?”
Sticky checked his papers. “We’re almost finished. The next entry explains why the special recruits aren’t so sad. It’s more or less what we thought.”
“Can you just give it in a nutshell?” Constance asked, then added: “Please?”
The others resisted looking at one another, and no one spoke. It was perhaps the first time Constance had ever used that word, and though she’d quite possibly said it by accident, no one wished to spoil the moment. If they mentioned it aloud, she might retract it. And so Sticky only nodded and gave the next entry in a nutshell.
“Remember when we talked about lacunar amnesia, or forgetting particular events? Apparently Mr. Curtain can use his machine to wipe out specific memories without taking away everything — without doing a complete brainsweep. It makes people dazed for a while, but then they get better, and the memories rarely come back.”
“So if those Recruiters had managed to kidnap us,” Kate said, “Mr. Curtain would have made sure we didn’t remember it. That’s why special recruits aren’t scared.”
“But because they weren’t completely brainswept,” Reynie said, “they aren’t sad, either. Which makes them better Executive material. I’ll bet most of the Executives used to be special recruits. Maybe even all of them. After all, they had no families to return to on the mainland.”
“I suppose that should make it harder for me to dislike them,” Kate observed. “Since they were kidnapped orphans and all.”
Everyone considered this for a minute. Then they looked at one another and shook their heads. They couldn’t help it. They still disliked the Executives.
“But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to help them,” Reynie pointed out. “If Mr. Benedict can figure out how to bring their memories back, maybe they can start over — maybe they’ll learn how not to be so nasty.”
“I’m not holding my breath,” Kate said.
Sticky flipped a page. “Guess what? The date of this next entry is the day we arrived on the island.”
At last — all facilities now complete! Proper officials in proper places. Public mood at proper levels. The Improvement is very close at hand. Everything is ready except final modifications and the final few shipments, one of which is being loaded even as I write. Farewell! I’ve dispatched a Helper crew to adjust turbine output — shall require a great deal more from them in coming days.
“We saw that!” Kate said. “We saw them working on the turbines! And we saw that truck the Helpers were loading!”
“Those crates,” Reynie said. He slapped his forehead. “I’m so stupid! It should have occurred to me. . . .” He looked at the others, feeling completely foolish. “I’m sure you already know what I’m talking about.”
The others stared back at him, having no idea.
“I liked that part about your being stupid, though,” said Constance.
“Recruiters were driving that truck, remember?” Reynie said. “So it must have had something valuable in it — something Mr. Curtain wanted to protect. Why else would he need such security?”
“Oh, yeah, I was just going to think of that,” Kate said with a laugh. “You’re too hard on yourself, Reynie.”
“But if I’d thought of it sooner,” Reynie argued, “Mr. Benedict might have been able to investigate! For all we know, the rest of the shipments have been sent out by now. We may never know what was in those crates.”
“Maybe not,” said Kate, “but we can still report it, and we can keep an eye out ourselves. Right?”
“True,” Reynie admitted. He still felt like a dolt, but he preferred not to dwell on the feeling. “Sticky, how many more entries do you have to read?”
“Two,” Sticky said. The next one was this:
Success! As of this morning, the messages are transmitting directly. To my great satisfaction, the Whisperer is now capable of
“That’s it?” Kate asked.
“Sorry,” Sticky said. “His hand was covering the rest.”
“The Whisperer,” Constance said. “So that’s what he calls his dumb machine.”
Reynie said nothing. He was wondering what new thing the Whisperer was capable of now. He knew one thing for sure: If Mr. Curtain was happy about it, then it spelled bad news.
Sticky was preparing to read the last journal entry. “This is where he seems to go completely bonkers. I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
It’s Curtain for You! Trust Ledroptha Curtain. Curtain makes things better. Feel certain about Curtain. No, Feel certain with Curtain. Curtain Has Control.
“Bizarre!” said Kate.
“Is he talking to himself?” asked Constance.
“Sounds like he’s trying to convince somebody of something,” Reynie said. “But who would that be?”
“It just supports my personal opinion that he’s a wacko,” Kate said with a shrug. “But wacko or not, he’s awfully careful about keeping his secrets — which is why this has been so extremely, marvelously, wonderfully satisfying!”
Unable to sit still any longer, Kate leaped to her feet, pumped her arms in the air, and in a barely restrained whisper said, “Can you believe we actually spied in Mr. Curtain’s journal and got away with it? The Sender himself! I say three cheers for us! Three cheers for the Mysterious Benedict Society!”
Reynie and Sticky whispered three cheers, but Constance rolled her eyes and said cheering was for babies.
“I see you’re back to being yourself,” Kate said with a chuckle. “But I’m not going to let it bother me.” Constance scowled and started to reply, but Kate went right on talking. “We’re on a roll, everyone. We’re really getting somewhere! I say we report all this to Mr. B, then tomorrow we take a peek at the loading area with my spyglass. Let’s try to figure out what’s in those crates!”
The others agreed; they sent their report, and two hours later Reynie was drifting away to sleep, having finished an upbeat mental letter to Miss Perumal and feeling hopeful for the first time in ages. Maybe, he thought, Mr. Benedict really could do something to stop Mr. Curtain. And then maybe he could help Mr. Bloomsburg and Milligan and everyone else get their memories back. It was possible, wasn’t it?
Reynie breathed deeply, stretched out, and let sleep overcome him. As dark as things seemed, at least they didn’t seem entirely hopeless. The children were finally making some progress. Who knew what would happen tomorrow?
Of course, Reynie could not know what would happen, and this was fortunate. For if he had known, he would never have slept so easily.
Caught in the Act
The very next day Sticky was caught cheating. In a display of triumphant fury, Jillson marched to the rear of the room, snatched Sticky’s hand — with which he’d been tugging his ear lobe — and demanded, “What’s this?”
Terrified, Sticky mumbled, “My . . . my hand.”
“Yes, but what were you doing with your hand?”
“Scratching my ear?”
“I’m not as stupid as I look, you know!” Jillson roared, then hesitated, realizing what she’d said, before scowling and saying, “That’s it, Washington, you’re going to the Waiting Room! Stand up!”
Jillson glanced at Reynie and Kate, and at Constance in the back, obviously suspecting one of them as a cheating partner. But the fidgety bald boy was the only one she felt confident about.
“Stand up,” she repeated, yanking Sticky to his feet as if he weighed no more than a bird. “The rest of you sit tight. I’ll send another Executive to monitor your quiz — which, thanks to this cheater, you’ll all have to start over from the beginning.”
Boos and jeers erupted as Sticky was dragged from the room, casting one last frightened glance back at Reynie before disappearing. With an awful, helpless feeling, Reynie watched him go. He looked back at Kate, who shook her head grimly. Sticky was in deep trouble. They were all in deep trouble.
“Too bad, so sad,” said Martina.
“What exactly is the Waiting Room?” asked Eustace Crust, one of the special recruits.
“Ask Corliss Danton,” said Martina smugly. “Tell them, Corliss.”
Corliss, who at the mention of the Waiting Room had buried his face in his hands, was silently wiping tears from his eyes. “It’s . . . just a place you go when you’re waiting to meet with Mr. Curtain. An . . . unpleasant place.”
Reynie looked at Constance, whose face was even more sullen than usual, and fearful as well. He wanted to give her a comforting look, but she wouldn’t even glance in his direction. Anyway, what good would a look do? He was no more confident than Constance that the end wasn’t hurtling toward them.
It was bad enough that Sticky’s worst fear had come true, but if Sticky told Mr. Curtain everything — and who could blame him if he cracked under such pressure? — it would mean the end of their mission . . . and the beginning of something else. What would Mr. Curtain do if he found out? Would he take away everything? A complete brainsweep? And not just for Sticky but for all of them?
Maybe they weren’t even worth the trouble, Reynie thought grimly. They were orphans, after all — or in Sticky’s case, believed to be. Might they not just . . . go missing? Departed, Mr. Curtain would call it. Really departed. Reynie had a panicky feeling in his belly, the kind he always got when he dreamed he’d fallen from a precipice. Only with dreams he always woke up.
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