The Mysterious Benedict Society

Kate had squeezed behind the tables and found a numeric keypad by the covered-up doorway.

“But how would that be possible? So many people brainswept in so short a time? That’s a major operation — it would take ages to prepare for it.” Reynie felt an unexpected burst of optimism. “Maybe we’ve gotten lucky! Maybe we’re in time. If we can just figure out how —”

“Boys?” Kate poked her head out from behind the tables. “There’s a door back here. You need to see what’s on the other side.” She spoke in an oddly strangled voice, as if she’d just seen a dead body.

Sticky’s eyes widened. He shook his head. “I don’t want to. Reynie, you look and then tell me about it.”

But Reynie grabbed Sticky’s arm, and together they went to look through the door.

“Oh,” said Reynie.

“Oh, no,” said Sticky.

“Are those what I think they are?” Kate asked. “They look like old-timey hair dryers.”

“I’m afraid so,” Reynie said.

The machines stretched in long rows — row after row after row — across a vast underground warehouse. An elegantly lettered sign that hung from the ceiling read: WELCOME TO MEMORY TERMINAL. Along one wall were stacked hundreds of crates. Reynie bent to inspect the nearest one. It was filled with bundles of paper and marked with an address in China. The crate next to it bore the same address but was filled with machine parts — including, he noted, a red helmet and a blue one.

“It really is happening,” said Kate. “I can’t believe it.”

“So what’s in the crates?” said Constance.

They turned to find Constance standing in the doorway behind them.

“What happened to standing guard?” Sticky cried.

“You took too long!”

Sticky’s eyes bulged, but Reynie cut him off before they could start arguing. “She’s right. We have taken too long. We need to get out of here before it’s too late.”

And yet as they rushed out of the Memory Terminal and up the long secret passage, Reynie couldn’t stop thinking, “But we are too late! Much, much too late!”

The night was rainy, the plaza deserted. The light in the distant woods had stopped flashing, and Sticky turned from the window. “They want us to wait for a reply. I guess it’s a lot for them to think about.”

It was a lot for everyone to think about.

None of the children spoke. They only waited.

An interminable hour passed. Constance fell asleep sitting cross-legged, and Kate repeatedly asked Reynie to thumb-wrestle her to pass the time. Reynie declined. Even thumb-wrestling felt beyond his ability at the moment. Everything did. He was hoping against hope that Mr. Benedict would find some way to save them — to save everyone — without requiring anything more from him. Reynie didn’t think he was capable of more, not since the Whisperer. He was worried, deeply worried, that the Whisperer had revealed to him who he truly was.

At the window Sticky suddenly sat up straight. “Here’s a message!” He adjusted his spectacles and stared intently toward the mainland. “Know . . . thine . . . enemy.” After a minute Sticky climbed down. “That’s it. ‘Know thine enemy.’”

Kate looked hopefully at Reynie. “I don’t suppose you know what he means, do you? Just right off the bat?”

Reynie shook his head. “No idea.”

Kate sighed. “Then I suppose we’ll have to wake up Constance. It’s been so pleasant not to have anyone grumping and mumping for a few minutes.”

The children woke Constance (who claimed she hadn’t been sleeping) and put their heads together. What could it mean? Didn’t they already know Mr. Curtain was the enemy?

“Why do they say it like that, anyway?” Constance muttered. “It sounds stupid.”

“It’s an old saying,” said Reynie. “That’s how it’s usually said.”

“At least in the early translation,” Sticky said. “Originally it appears in a book by Sun Tzu called The Art of War. It comes at the end of the third chapter.”

The others stared at him.

“Well, it does,” Sticky said.

“I think we need more,” said Kate. “We’re in too big a hurry and have no idea what they’re talking about. Let’s ask for another hint.”

The others agreed — it couldn’t hurt to ask — so Sticky returned to the window and sent a follow-up question: Which enemy? But to this he received no reply. Sticky repeated the message and again got no reply. He was about to try a third time when Reynie stopped him.

“There has to be a reason they’re not replying,” Reynie said. “Are you sure the coast is clear?”

Sticky cringed. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He peered out the window. “The plaza’s empty . . . so’s the rock garden . . . the shoreline and the bridge are harder to see, but as far as I can tell they seem deserted.”

“Let me look,” Kate said, climbing up beside him and sweeping her eyes from left to right. “Sticky’s right, it does seem clear.” She took out her spyglass and scanned the view again. “Nope, no one out there that — oh, no!”