The Mysterious Benedict Society

“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 voice, 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.