The Mysterious Benedict Society

as he is generous. Never leaves the Institute, never takes a vacation. Too much important work to do, he says, broadening the minds of the next generation.”

The Executives led them across the rock garden onto the large central plaza, which lay fronted and flanked by the Institute’s massive stone buildings. As they walked, Jackson identified the buildings in turn: “Starting from the right you see your dorm, of course — you remember your dorm, don’t you? — and just to the left of it, that one with the tower is the Institute Control Building. It houses Mr. Curtain’s office, the guard and Recruiter quarters, and the Executive suites. You’ll never have reason to go there unless Mr. Curtain calls you to his office. Or unless you become Executives yourselves someday.” Jackson looked the children over and shook his head, as if he rather doubted that possibility.

“Anyway,” he went on, “next to the Institute Control Building you see the cafeteria — right in front of us here — and then the classroom building. That building set off to the side there is the Best of Health Center, which is what we call the infirmary, and the building way on up that path is the gym. The gym is always open, except when it’s closed. And there you have it. Those are all the Institute buildings.”

“What about that one?” Reynie asked, pointing to a rooftop just visible over the classroom building.

Jackson scowled. “I was getting to that, Reynard. That’s the Helpers’ barracks. You know what barracks are, right? It’s where the Helpers live.”

“Helpers?”

“Do you not have eyes?” Jackson scoffed. “Haven’t you seen the grown-ups in white uniforms scuttling about, sweeping walkways and picking up trash and whatnot?”

Reynie nodded. He couldn’t have known they were called Helpers, of course, but he chose not to point this out.

“The Helpers do the maintenance,” Jillson explained, “and the cleaning, the laundry, the cooking — all the unimportant tasks, you know. Now come along, squirts, and don’t drag your feet. There’s still a lot to see inside.”

The Executives bustled them into the classroom building, which had seemed large enough from the outside but was perfectly enormous within. Brightly lit corridors branched out from the entrance in all directions. With Constance struggling to keep up (and looking very unhappy about it), the children were led down corridor after corridor. At last they stopped in one that was lined on both sides with classroom doors.

“Now, there are an awful lot of corridors in this building —,” said Jillson.

“And not just this building,” Jackson put in. “Some connect to the Helpers’ barracks and the cafeteria, which have their own corridors, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jillson said. “So the next thing you shrubs need to know is how to find your way around. Now don’t fret. It seems confusing, but it isn’t confusing. Which happens to be an important principle you’ll learn here at the Institute.”

“It isn’t confusing?” said Constance, who was turning round and round, clearly confused.

“Look beneath your feet,” Jackson said. “See that stripe of yellow tiles? Just keep to the corridors with yellow tiles on the floor and you can’t get lost.”

Obediently the children looked at the floor. Reynie had noticed the yellow tiles but hadn’t thought anything of them — he’d assumed they were decorative. He must remember not to assume anything about this place.

Jillson put a finger to her lips and drew the children over to peek through the window of one of the doors. A gangly Executive stood in front of about thirty attentive young students, leading them in a memorization exercise:

“THE FREE MARKET MUST ALWAYS BE COMPLETELY FREE.

THE FREE MARKET MUST BE CONTROLLED IN CERTAIN CASES.

THE FREE MARKET MUST BE FREE ENOUGH TO CONTROL ITS FREEDOM IN CERTAIN CASES.

THE FREE MARKET MUST HAVE ENOUGH CONTROL TO FREE ITSELF IN CERTAIN CASES.

THE FREE MARKET . . .”

“What on earth are they talking about?” Sticky asked.

“Oh, that’s just the Free Market Drill,” said Jackson. “Very basic stuff. You’ll pick it up in no time.”

“Sounds like nonsense to me,” said Constance.

“On a certain level everything sounds like nonsense, doesn’t it?” Jillson said as they continued their tour. “Precisely the kind of lesson you’ll learn at the Institute. Take the word ‘food,’ for example. Ask yourself, ‘Why do we call it that?’ It’s an odd-sounding word, isn’t it? ‘Food.’ It could easily be considered nonsense. But in fact it’s extremely important. It’s the essential stuff of life!”

“It still sounds like nonsense,” Constance muttered, “and now I’m hungry.”

It wasn’t just this talk of food that made Constance’s mouth water — and the other children’s, too, for that matter — but the smell of food as well. They were being led into the cafeteria now, a huge bright room crowded with tables, much like any other cafeteria except for the smells. Drifting in the air were what seemed to be a thousand delectable scents: grilled hot dogs, hamburgers, and vegetables; melted cheese; tomato sauce; garlic; sausage; fried fish; baked pies; cinnamon and sugar; apple tarts; and on and on. Beyond the empty tables, on the other side of a counter, they saw Helpers scurrying about in the kitchen, half-hidden behind clouds of steam and grill smoke.

Kate had her nose in the air like a bloodhound. “It smells like a bakery, a pizzeria, and a cookout all at once.”

“That’s another great thing about the Institute,” said Jackson. “The Helpers prepare wonderful meals. You can eat anything you want, and as much as you want, too. Just go up and tell them what you’d like. Don’t be offended if they don’t say anything. Helpers aren’t supposed to talk to you unless you ask them a question. Pretty soon you don’t even notice them. I remember when I was a student, I liked to play tricks on them — nothing they could do about it, you see, because no rule said I couldn’t. But now I hardly pay attention to them, except to keep them in