The Mysterious Benedict Society

“I think I understand them pretty well,” said Constance. (The others looked at one another in disbelief.) “Right now, the hidden messages are sent at low power, several times a day, by the Sender — a man named Ledroptha Curtain. But his tidal turbines are extremely powerful, so it sounds like at some point he’s going to start boosting the strength of his messages.”

“Bravo, Constance!” Mr. Benedict said. “Well done!”

The other children scowled.

“Well done, all of you,” Mr. Benedict added, with a wink that made them feel a bit better. “Now, then, do you have other questions?”

“I do,” said Kate. “What happens when the Sender boosts the power?”

“We know only one thing for certain,” said Mr. Benedict. “With just a very slight increase, the Sender will eliminate the need for televisions or radios to transmit his messages — he’ll be able to broadcast his messages straight into everyone’s minds. Even those of us with an uncommon love of truth will no longer be able to avoid the broadcasts.”

Sticky looked horrified. “How . . . how will that feel?”

“Don’t tell me we’ll hear those kids’ voices in our heads,” Kate said, a disgusted look on her face.

“In rare cases, perhaps,” said Mr. Benedict, “with exceptionally sensitive minds. But most of us will simply feel irritable and confused — essentially the way we feel now whenever the television is on and the messages are being broadcast.”

“You said ‘with a very slight increase,’” said Reynie. “What happens when the power gets boosted all the way — when the messages are sent at full strength?”

Mr. Benedict tapped his nose. “That is when we’ll hear voices in our heads. I can’t imagine it will be pleasant.”

“It sounds awful,” Kate said, her lip curling at the very thought. “So why does he want us all to think we’re crazy?”

A shadow had crossed Reynie’s face. “That’s not what he wants, is it, Mr. Benedict? At least not the main thing. Otherwise what’s the point of waiting?”

“Okay, now I’m confused,” said Kate, and the other children signaled their agreement.

“I believe Reynie is wondering,” said Mr. Benedict, “why the Sender would wait all this time to boost the power if he could have done so years ago. Am I right?”

Reynie nodded.

“I agree,” Mr. Benedict said. “The voices aren’t the point. They are the side effect, the unintended consequence of a dark and ambitious undertaking. The Sender has spent all these years preparing people for something — preparing them for the thing to come.”

“But what is the thing to come?” said Constance.

“That is precisely what we must find out,” said Mr. Benedict, “before it is too late.”

“And if we are too late?” asked Sticky nervously. “Will it really be that bad?”

Mr. Benedict grew solemn. “For us, and for all the people like us — all those whose minds cleave so strongly to the truth — I am convinced it will be . . . most disagreeable. You must understand that the Sender has not gone to such enormous trouble — for so many years, and at such extravagant expense — to allow any interference with his plans. He has already shown himself to be quite ruthless. No, children, I believe that by virtue of our minds’ resistance, we shall — how to put it? — I believe we shall receive special attention.”

At these words a black cloud of possibility bloomed in the children’s minds, a darkness in which scary thoughts flickered like bolts of lightning.

Special attention.

Their mouths went dry as bones.

Reynie’s mind was awhirl. Part of him wanted not to believe Mr. Benedict. Could he really be trusted? He was an odd man, and the things he told them were odder still. It would be such a relief to think his predictions about the thing to come were nothing more than wild speculation. And yet Reynie did trust Mr. Benedict, had trusted him almost immediately. What troubled Reynie was that he so badly wanted to trust Mr. Benedict — wanted to believe in this man who had shown faith in him, wanted to stay with these children who seemed to like and respect Reynie as much as he did them.

And so the question was not whether Reynie could trust Mr. Benedict, but whether he could trust himself. Who in his right mind would actually want to be put in danger just because that let him be a part of something?

Reynie didn’t know. He only knew he didn’t want to go back.

The Naming of the Crew

In preparation for the children’s departure, Mr. Benedict told them, there was much necessary information to be gathered, and paperwork to be completed, and signatures to be forged, and orders to be given, and fees to be paid, and phone calls to be made. Except for their brief meeting with the children, Number Two had not left her computer, nor Mr. Benedict his desk, for hours. And since Milligan was standing guard, and Rhonda herself was too busy to do more than bring their supper and excuse herself, the children dined alone.

Afterward Reynie and Kate went into the sitting room to practice their Morse code. Despite their urging, however, Constance crabbily refused to join them. Instead, while Sticky helped them practice, she composed a poem about a bunch of bossy gargoyles who liked to eat cat food and pick their ears. It was an unpleasant poem, and the gargoyles’ names, not very cleverly disguised, were Kateena, Reynardo, and Georgette. After reciting this to the others, Constance went straight to bed without brushing her teeth or saying good night.

In truth this came as a relief to the other children, who were already more than tired of Constance’s ways, and who gathered in the boys’ room to discuss this very concern. She had tried their patience all evening — indeed, ever since they’d met her — and the prospect of her joining them on a dangerous mission had them worried.

“We simply can’t do it,” Kate said for the tenth time. She was hanging upside down from the top bunk to see if