The Mysterious Benedict Society

Had Mr. Curtain already sensed a problem? He was frowning with concentration, his eyes closed.

How long could Sticky hold on — knowing his resistance might betray him? Knowing all he must do to relieve his terror was cooperate? Knowing he was but moments away from that wonderful relief? It would be like trying not to scratch the most powerful itch anyone had ever known.

Reynie moved silently to the window.

“Sticky . . . Washington,” Sticky said again, in a much weaker voice, and Reynie knew they hadn’t much time.

Mr. Curtain’s eyes were still closed. Now was his chance. Reynie waved his hand back and forth in front of the window. It was dark outside, but the room was well-lit — his hand would be visible from outside. Back and forth he waved, back and forth, back and forth. Please, please, let somebody notice, he thought. Please, Rhonda, let it be true what you said. Through the telescope we appear to be only a few feet away. Through the telescope you watch the island constantly. Please let it be true. And please let your eyes be sharp.

With one final attention-gathering wave, he placed his hand against the glass so that the message scrawled on his palm could be read, if only someone was out there to read it: We need K & C here! Now!

The Great Kate Weather Machine

K and C, as it happened, were still in bed. It had been an awful night for Kate. Try as she might, she couldn’t forget the look in Milligan’s eyes as the Executives and Recruiters paraded him through the cafeteria. She slept poorly, in and out of a doze, constantly worried and miserable, and never once did she have a shred of an idea what to do.

Now it was almost dawn, time to rise, though rising hardly seemed worth the trouble. Worsening Kate’s mood, if that was possible, was a distant, irritating beeping sound, the erratic honking of a faraway horn. A car alarm on the mainland, or some obnoxious kid fooling around with an air horn. It had been going on for several minutes now. Long honks, short honks, long honks again, on and on. Irritating, and irritatingly familiar, like something she was supposed to remember but couldn’t. Almost like a code, she thought. Almost like . . .

“Morse code!” Kate said aloud, sitting bolt upright in bed.

A long honk, a short honk, a long one again, a pause. That would be a K. She listened intently. Here came some more. Oh, why hadn’t she been studying her Morse code? Flying to her desk, Kate wrote the code down as it came. Short, long. Long, short. Long, short, short. A pause. That spelled and, she was fairly sure. Long, short, long, short — a C. K and C.

“Will somebody turn off that stupid alarm?” Constance moaned in her sleep.

“Shush! No, don’t shush! Constance, wake up! We’re being signaled!”

But Constance, lost in a sleepy fog, only buried her head under her pillow.

The code kept coming. Kate struggled to decipher it. “I hope the boys are getting this,” she thought. “Sticky will know it for sure.” After a pause the message started to repeat, and Kate studied what she’d jotted down: k and c to flauto were now. Good grief! It made no sense at all. “K and C” stood for Kate and Constance, obviously. But what did “flauto” mean? Was it Spanish? Latin? Again she hoped Sticky was listening — he knew every language in the book. Here came the message again. Kate paid close attention, careful not to mistake short for long or vice versa, making sure to recognize pauses. She came up with this: k and c to flau tower now. What in the world? What was a “flau tower” anyway?

“Flag tower!” she exclaimed, realizing her mistake. “Good gravy, Kate! The boys are in the flag tower already! Constance, wake up!”

“Quiet down!” came the muffled voice from beneath the pillow.

Kate threw on her shoes, fastened her bucket to her belt. Who knew how long they’d been up there? Who knew what sort of danger they were in? What if she was too late? She’d have to —

Kate stopped in mid-thought, staring at the tiny lump of bedclothes that was Constance Contraire. How could she possibly make it with that belligerent girl along? Kate would have to carry her, assuming she could even get her out of bed. What if Constance slowed her down so much she couldn’t help the boys in time?

It occurred to Kate to leave her behind. An inviting thought — so inviting she almost did just that. She went to the door. Hesitated. Looked back. The plan had called for all four of them. That was what Mr. Benedict had said mattered most, and it was what they’d agreed upon only yesterday. All four of them. That was the plan. No way would she be the one to mess it up. In a flash Kate was at the bedside, shaking Constance like a maraca. “Wake up, Constance! It’s an emergency!”

Even with the shaking and urging, it took Kate a minute to get Constance fully awake. Dawn had broken, daylight grew stronger by the second, and with it her fear that she’d be too late. By the time Constance understood what was happening, Kate had jammed her shoes onto her feet. “Get on my back!” she ordered, ignoring Constance’s whining that her toes hurt (Kate had forced the shoes onto the wrong feet). Constance climbed on — still grumbling — and Kate dashed from the room.

In the corridor they passed several students clinging miserably to paper bags, standing in line for the overcrowded bathroom. There were slick spots here and there on the floor that the Helpers hadn’t mopped up yet, and Kate nimbly avoided these, trying not to think about them. When a queasy-looking Executive approached to ask their business, Kate cried, “Get back! She’s about to barf her Brussels sprouts!” The Executive, who had already seen more of this sort of thing in one night than she cared to see in a lifetime, stepped aside without another word.

Faster and faster Kate ran, catching her pace, her bucket bouncing against her hip and Constance clinging desperately to her shoulders. Past exhausted Helpers with their buckets and mops, out of the dormitory, and straight for the secret entrance behind the Institute Control Building. With the help of Mr. Curtain’s elevator, Kate figured they could be outside the Whispering Gallery in thirty seconds or less. “Provided we get lucky,” she thought, “and the entrance isn’t guarded.” She rounded the boulders, kicked the door open, and burst through the foyer into the secret passage.

The entrance was guarded, unfortunately. And by none other than Martina Crowe.

Kate drew up short, trying to think of what to do.

Martina was so astounded by Kate’s sudden appearance, she almost looked afraid, as if Kate had come to deal her some blow. But she quickly grew haughty. “How did you two get down here? You’re in