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!
Mr. Curtain had laced his fingers together atop the brown package in his lap and was looking at the boys expectantly. With a hint of impatience, he said, “And now for your questions.” The boys got the distinct feeling that if they didn’t have questions, he would be most displeased.
Sticky, trying to do his part, cleared his throat and squeaked, “What . . . what is that package for?”
“Excellent question, George!” cried Mr. Curtain, which clearly meant it was the question he had wanted to be asked. “The package is for demonstration purposes.” He held up the box. “Tell me, how many things do I hold in my hand?”
“One?” Sticky replied.
Mr. Curtain looked at Reynie. “Is that your answer, too, Reynard? I hold one thing in my hand?”
There must be something inside the box, Reynie thought. But he sensed this was not a time Mr. Curtain wished to be impressed. Rather, Mr. Curtain wanted to surprise the boys for “demonstration purposes,” and so Reynie replied, “It certainly looks like one thing.”
“Ha!” Mr. Curtain cried, seeming quite pleased indeed. “And yet observe.” He turned the package upside down, and out of it spilled hundreds of little pieces of paper. “One package, yes, but one package may contain many things, do you see? Now clean up these paper scraps — I despise a messy floor.”
As the boys scrambled to pick up the paper, Mr. Curtain continued, “What do I do if I wish to transmit an enormous amount of information in a short space of time, hmm? Do you think I can sit in my Whisperer every minute, every hour of the day, dictating to my Messengers? Hardly! There is work to be done, modifications to be made, an Institute to be run, plans to be implemented! And so how do I accomplish the inputting of all this data? Packaging, boys. I transmit packages, and every package contains an incredible amount of information.”
Reynie and Sticky finished cleaning up and sank onto the cushions again.
“I am going to say something to you now,” said Mr. Curtain. “One phrase only. But I want you to pay attention to what happens in your minds when I say it. Are you ready?”
The boys nodded.
“Poison apples, poison worms.”
The boys blinked, startled, for in a single moment an entire lesson — an entire class period of listening to Jillson drone on and on about bad government — had blossomed in their heads.
Mr. Curtain was smiling. “One package, many thoughts. If you have mastered the material, then the proper phrase will conjure it — like the magic words that coax a genie from a bottle. Do you see?”
In fact the boys understood much more than Mr. Curtain realized. Finally it all made sense! Mr. Benedict had wondered how the hidden messages could be so simple and yet have such profound effects. It was one of the things he’d hoped they might find out. Now they knew: Mr. Benedict’s Receiver was able to detect the “package” phrases, but not the information contained in them. He could hear the magic words, but he couldn’t see the genie!
“Very well,” said Mr. Curtain, when he saw that the boys understood, “you have been sufficiently briefed. And now the moment of truth. Reynard, have a seat in the Whisperer. George, you may observe from your cushion. If all goes well, the session should last about half an hour. Then you shall have your turn.”
Reynie rose and approached the machine. His mouth went pasty and bitter-tasting as he recalled Mr. Curtain’s saying that the Whisperer could perceive thoughts. “To a certain extent,” he’d said — but to what extent? How much could it see? Would the Whisperer reveal him as a spy? Reynie stopped and stared at the metal chair and the blue helmet, racked with indecision. Should he try to resist somehow? Try to mask his thoughts? Was it even possible? He had no way of knowing, and no time to consider.
“Reynard?”
“Sorry, sir. Just . . . just savoring the moment.”
With clammy hands Reynie took his seat in the chair. Mr. Curtain, meanwhile, zipped around to the rear of the Whisperer, reversing himself so that his back was to Reynie’s as he fitted the red helmet over his own head. “Ledroptha Curtain!” he barked. Instantly the blue helmet lowered itself onto Reynie’s head, contracting to fit snugly against his temples. At the same time, metal cuffs popped out of the armrests and closed over his wrists.
“Never fear,” said Mr. Curtain. “The cuffs are only to keep you secure. Please relax.”
Reynie took a deep breath and tried in vain to stop trembling. After a moment he realized it was his seat that trembled — the Whisperer was pulsing with energy. He closed his eyes.
Good, said a voice in his head. It wasn’t his own voic
e, nor was it Mr. Curtain’s. It was the Whisperer’s. Not unkind, but not friendly, either. Impossible to describe, it was simply . . . there. Good, it repeated. What is your name?
Reynie still wasn’t sure if he ought to resist a little. How much could the Whisperer detect? If he gave an inch, would it take a mile? He was trying to decide how to proceed when the Whisperer’s voice in his head said, Welcome, Reynard Muldoon.
But he hadn’t answered! Opening his eyes in surprise, he saw Sticky on his cushion watching with intense concern. Reynie tried to concentrate. Of course — this wasn’t like talking. He hadn’t realized he’d thought his name, but once you were asked to think of your name, you couldn’t not think of it, no matter how you tried. Like the Whisperer’s voice, the answer was simply there.
Reynard Muldoon, what do you fear most?
Spiders, Reynie lied, trying to regain some control. Spiders made Reynie nervous, but he wasn’t afraid of them. Certainly they were not what he feared most. That was something he didn’t want the Whisperer to know.
But responding to Reynie’s involuntary answer, the Whisperer said, Don’t worry, you are not alone.
At once Reynie was filled with an astonishing sense of well-being. He felt so good, so at peace, he could hardly hold his thoughts together. So this was why those other Messengers looked so happy, why they craved their sessions so intensely! When you did what it wanted, the Whisperer rewarded you by soothing your fears. Reynie would never have guessed it could feel so wonderful.
Reynie had another problem now. A very troubling problem. Having been made to feel so wonderful — and so easily, so unexpectedly — Reynie found he wanted to give in to the Whisperer. Wanted it desperately. This was a disturbing development, and while he still had some trace of determination left — before he lost himself entirely — Reynie decided he must learn something if he could.
Mr. Curtain? he thought. Can you hear me?
Let us begin, said the Whisperer.
Mr. Curtain, can you hear my thoughts?
Let us begin.
Mr. Curtain didn’t seem to be hearing him. So maybe the Whisperer could only seek out certain things and was incapable of detecting anything else. Reynie had to hope so.
Let us begin, the Whisperer repeated with an unmistakable hint of impatience.
He could not put it off any longer.
Okay, Reynie thought, bracing himself. Okay, I’m ready.
When Reynie opened his eyes again, Sticky stood over him, staring at him as if he might be dead. Reynie blinked and stretched. (He saw relief in Sticky’s eyes.) He was fatigued, but pleasantly so, as if he had worked hard at some extremely enjoyable task. The cuffs had retracted into the armrest, the blue helmet had been lifted from his head, and Mr. Curtain was at his desk, making a note in his journal and speaking quietly into his unseen intercom.
“Are you okay?” Sticky whispered. “You were in that thing for two hours.”
“Two hours!” Reynie repeated, amazed. It had seemed like only a few minutes. He remembered the first stream of words entering his mind, remembered dutifully repeating them, his mind relaxing into a feeling of marvelous happiness. There was nothing at all to fear, nothing at all to worry about. In fact, now that Reynie thought about it, he was a little cranky. He wanted to slip back into that feeling. He was struck with a pang of bitter jealousy that Sticky was about to take his place in the Whisperer.
“Does it hurt?” Sticky asked. “Are you all right?”
Sticky’s worried expression brought Reynie to his senses. “No . . . no, don’t worry. Just relax. I think . . . I think we’re safe for now. We can talk later.”
“No whispering, boys!” Mr. Curtain called, wheeling over to them. “I dislike all secrets save my own.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Reynie. “I was only telling him not to worry, that it doesn’t hurt.”
Mr. Curtain laughed his screechy laugh. “Of course it doesn’t hurt. It wouldn’t be useful if it did. To function properly, my Whisperer has always needed children, and children are averse to pain — I’ve found that out through experience. No, it doesn’t hurt, George. Quite the opposite. I daresay Reynard can assure you the session was perfectly wonderful. And unusual, I might add — two hours was far, far longer than I expected. As I have said before, Reynard, you have a strong mind. New Messengers rarely make it half an hour before their concentration flies apart and they slip into a daze. Even my seasoned Messengers never last more than an hour.”
Mr. Curtain seemed tired himself. Perspiration glistened on his forehead, and his lumpy nose was splotched with red. Tired but happy, just like Reynie. “I am very pleased, Reynard. Very pleased, indeed. I believe we have more to discuss now. And if George’s session goes even half so well, our discussion will include him, too. Wouldn’t you like that, George? Of course you would. Meanwhile, I’ve sent for some juice. Using the Whisperer calls for frequent refreshment.”
Reynie rose shakily from the seat. His mind kept returning to the phrases he’d been compelled to think: “. . . Brush your teeth and kill the germs. Poison apples, poison worms. The missing aren’t missing, they’re only departed. . . .” And with each phrase came the memory of the pleasure he’d been given by thinking it. He wanted to sit back down, go straight into another session. . . .
Reynie shook his head. He couldn’t believe how strongly the Whisperer took hold of you. Also how much it took out of you — he felt so weak he stumbled over to a cushion and collapsed upon it. Sticky followed and hovered over him, wanting to help somehow, not knowing what to do.
Mr. Curtain, meanwhile, had pressed a button on his chair, and the Whispering Gallery’s metal door was sliding open. Jillson the Executive entered with a plastic jug and paper cups.
“Anything else, sir?” Jillson eyed the boys with grudging approval. She held an esteem for Messengers she didn’t have for other students.
“That will be all, Jillson,” Mr. Curtain replied.
Jillson went out, and Mr. Curtain poured the juice. Plastic jug and paper cups. No glass. Mr. Curtain was indeed careful. But even if they’d had a heavy glass bottle, something hard to conk him over the head with, what then? The Whisperer’s computer circuitry was safely hidden beneath the stone floor, its chair and helmets made of strong metal. How could they possibly do anything about it?
“Ready, George?” said Mr. Curtain. It was more of a command than a question. Sticky gulped and took his place in the machine. Once again Mr. Curtain fitted the red helmet over his head and growled, “Ledroptha Curtain!”
The blue helmet lowered, the cuffs appeared, and Sticky squeezed his eyes shut. His hands strained unconsciously against the cuffs, wanting to get at his spectacles. He was obviously frightened.
Reynie watched from the cushion. Poor Sticky. In a moment his fear would dissolve, replaced by something wonderful — which was far more troubling than the fear, for how could they work to defeat Mr. Curtain if they found his invention irresistible? Even now, free of the Whisperer’s metallic grip, Reynie found himself longing for that sensation of perfect security, of not being alone. . . .
His thoughts were interrupted by Sticky’s nervous voice crying out: “Sticky Washington!”
A pause.
Then more quietly: “Fine. George Washington.”
The Whisperer had asked his name, and Sticky, without realizing, had answered aloud. Apparently it preferred Sticky’s given name.
Reynie watched his friend anxiously clutch the armrests. He wished he could help him, but there was nothing to be done. Next the Whisperer would ask what his greatest fear was, and poor Sticky would be powerless to hide it. He must face the worst, and indeed it was with a distinctly quavering voice that Sticky spoke his reply to the Whisperer’s unspoken question.
“Not being wanted,” Sticky said. “Not being wanted at all.”
Open Sesame
At lunchtime Kate was tossing grapes into the air — so high they almost struck the cafeteria ceiling — then catching them in
her mouth, where they made a satisfying plock! She did this without thinking, as it was an old habit with her always to toss grapes when she ate them. And so, although she might seem distracted, Kate was actually listening carefully as the boys told of their experience in the Whispering Gallery. This was proven when Reynie said the Institute was going to close, and Kate — glancing down in disbelief — received a tunk! (forehead) instead of a plock!
“It’s true,” Sticky said. “Mr. Curtain foresees a ‘call to greater duty’ in the near future. He warned us to keep it quiet. He’d already told us that one word about the Whisperer gets your Messenger status revoked — and believe me, no Messenger wants to chance that. I suppose if he knew we were telling you this . . .”
“He’d toss you out of the tower,” Kate said, wiping grape juice from her forehead.
“He told us all this,” Reynie said, “because he’s considering keeping us around after the change — the Improvement, as he calls it — to be trained up as Executives. He said we’d get to use the Whisperer once a week as a reward for our service.”
“Is it really as great as all that?” Constance said. “Sitting in a stupid chair doing nothing?”
Reynie and Sticky glanced at each other and quickly glanced away. Neither wished to admit how overcome he’d been by the Whisperer. In fact, Reynie had struggled not to sound excited — even fond — when he described it to the girls. Did he really want to say aloud that Mr. Curtain’s machine had made him feel . . . well . . . happy?
Instead, Reynie changed the subject. “It’s exhausting, is what it is. That’s why Mr. Curtain needs so many Messengers. He alternates them to keep their minds fresh. Given the number of Messengers, our turn should come again in about a week, assuming — oh, for crying out loud, there goes another one!”
The children scowled and clutched at their heads. Constance, though, looked not just annoyed but perplexed — as if this were her first hidden message broadcast instead of her thirtieth.
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