The Mysterious Benedict Society

allowed himself a moment to laugh. Then he took them by the elbows and set off.

They were marched across the plaza, down a walkway, and finally over a patch of grass. Then came a sort of scuffing, thumping noise — it sounded like Jackson kicking something out of the way with his boot — and the boys were led inside. They went down a short passage, then up some winding stone steps. And then more winding steps. Steps after steps after steps. They must be heading up to the top of the flag tower, Reynie thought. No other place in the Institute could have so many steps.

With their leg muscles burning and chests heaving, the boys finally reached the top. Jackson gave them a few good spins — perhaps just for the fun of it — and removed their blindfolds. They stood in a bright, narrow stone passage. Before them loomed a great metal door.

Jackson pressed a speaker button on the wall. “Your new Messengers are here, sir.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Curtain’s voice through the speaker.

The door slid heavily open.

“What are you waiting for?” Jackson said. He gestured impatiently, mumbling something about numbskulls not taking hints, and the boys stepped through the open doorway. The door slid closed behind them.

“Welcome to the Whispering Gallery!” said Mr. Curtain, spinning his wheelchair away from the desk at which he’d been working. He beckoned them forward with a crook of his finger. “Come in, boys, and take a look around!”

The Whispering Gallery, though quite large, was furnished only with a single desk, two cushions in the corner, and, in the center of the room, a strange contraption resembling an old-fashioned beauty-salon hair dryer. So this was the Whisperer: an oversized metal armchair with a blue helmet bolted to the seatback, and another helmet (this one red) protruding into empty air behind it. It looked surprisingly simple — no running lights, computer screens, or whirring gizmos — and indeed, considering its purpose, the entire room seemed simple. Smooth, uniform stone walls, a lack of furniture or decoration, and only a single window.

Kate was right, Reynie thought. There is something important behind the highest window.

“If you’re wondering why the Whispering Gallery is so austere,” said Mr. Curtain, “the answer is security. You will find no heavy metal objects or sharp devices lying about, nothing with which my Whisperer might be damaged, nothing to be used as a weapon. The Whisperer’s computer system and power supply are safely protected by two feet of metal and stone. The walls are solid stone as well. The door through which you entered is the only door, and I am the only one who can open it. Control, boys! Control is key. The Whispering Gallery is perfectly controlled.

“I say all this to impress upon you the importance of our project,” Mr. Curtain continued. He gestured for them to sit on the cushions. “Why else would such security be necessary? It is a great honor to be made Messenger, and I hope you will not squander it.”

“No, sir,” the boys said together.

“Here, at last, is your special privilege,” said Mr. Curtain. “Only Messengers are allowed to help me with my project, and you may be assured it is a marvelous project. Now, I’m sure you’re wondering what the Whisperer is — am I right?”

The boys nodded.

“Of course I am. My machine cannot help but provoke curiosity. It looks simple, does it not? Only a chair with a helmet? Don’t be fooled! The Whisperer is a miraculous invention — my miraculous invention — and is sophisticated beyond reckoning. Have you ever heard of a machine capable of transmitting thoughts? Of course not! Would you even have thought it possible? Never! And yet it is possible. My Whisperer makes it possible.”

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?”