Remember the white knight.
Reynie let out his breath. A long, slow release. He didn’t have to think very hard to know what Mr. Benedict meant by that. Though it seemed so long ago, he well remembered their conversation about the chess problem. The white knight had made a move, changed his mind, and started over.
“And do you believe this was a good move?” Mr. Benedict had asked.
“No, sir,” Reynie had answered.
“Why, then, do you think he made it?”
And Reynie had replied, “Perhaps because he doubted himself.”
Reynie stared out the window for a long time. Then he put down the flashlight and climbed back into bed. His heartbeat had steadied, his shoulders relaxed. In his mind he took out the letter he had just written to Miss Perumal, crumpled it up, and threw it away.
He would write her another.
The Mouse in the Culvert
As Reynie composed a more optimistic letter to his former tutor — indeed, even as, in his mind, he wrote the words “and now our hopes really do lie with Kate” — Kate was feeling less and less optimistic herself.
Her problem wasn’t finding Mr. Curtain’s secret computer room. Her problem was not getting caught.
At first everything had gone fine. Kate had flitted through the shadows behind the dormitory, and in no time had made her way down to the boulders behind the Institute Control building, kicked open the secret entrance, and darted inside the foyer. It was here that the problems began. The ceilings had no crawl space, and the air vents were too small to accommodate her. She had no choice but to move about in the open. And it was open in the passage, as a quick peek from the foyer proved — open and bright as day. Not to mention it was hardly a “short passage” at all. Lined with doorways, it stretched off into the distance, where it finally turned a corner. Why had Sticky said it was short?
Then Kate remembered the boys had been blindfolded. They must have thought it was short, because they’d only gone a little way before Jackson had led them through a doorway and onto the tower steps. Any one of these near doorways might lead to the steps, then. Should she try them all?
As if in answer, about halfway down the passage a door slid open and Jackson stepped out into the passage. Kate pulled back into the foyer and listened. No footsteps. She peeked out again. Jackson was leaning against the wall by the door, munching absently on a stick of licorice. He seemed relaxed, settled, as if he intended to stay there awhile. Kate smiled. She thought it pretty likely he was guarding the tower steps. Now she just needed to get past him.
Pulling back out of view, Kate eased her slingshot from her bucket, snugged a marble into it, then peeked around the corner again. She waited a long minute, then another. Finally the opportunity came: Jackson looked down to straighten his sash, muttering something to himself. It was now or never. Kate launched the marble down the passage.
The marble shot over Jackson’s head, struck the stone floor in the distance with a satisfying click, bounced off the far wall, and skittered around the corner. Jackson spat out his licorice and barked, “Who’s there?” Not waiting for an answer, he ran down the passage and around the corner, and Kate dashed to the door he’d been guarding. Next to it was a numeric keypad. She hadn’t counted on that, but if Mr. Curtain hadn’t changed the codes again. . . . Her fingers flew across the numbers.
The door opened. Kate leaped inside.
Only then did she realize she was in an elevator. An elevator? Of course! How else would Mr. Curtain get up to the Whispering Gallery in his wheelchair? He must not let his Messengers use it — he did like his secrets, didn’t he? Probably enjoyed the thought of the children laboring up all those steps, too. As the door slid closed, Kate saw the tower steps through an open doorway across the passage. Jackson had been guarding both entrances.
There were only a few buttons inside the elevator. They were unlabeled, but it wasn’t hard to guess that the top button would be for an entrance outside the Whispering Gallery, and the one below it — that would surely be the computer room. Kate stared longingly at the button . . . but of course she couldn’t press it. She couldn’t use the elevator. Jackson was sure to hear it. He was probably already coming back down the passage.
And so Kate improvised. She emptied her bucket, flipped it over, and standing atop it on her tiptoes, unscrewed the maintenance panel above her. She’d never worked so quickly in her life. In no time she’d tied her rope in place, gathered her bucket and things, and disappeared though the panel into the elevator shaft above.
No sooner had Kate replaced the panel below her than the elevator door opened. Kate held perfectly still. She heard Jackson grunt. The door closed again.
Kate flicked on her penlight. The elevator cables stretched high above her, disappearing into blackness. She took off her shoes and socks, slid the socks over her hands to protect them, then put her shoes back on. With her penlight clamped between her teeth, she started up, wasting no time. She had a very long, very difficult climb ahead of her.
It was a very long, very difficult way to go only to be disappointed. Despite the socks, the cable hurt her hands; the climb was exhausting; and when at last Kate came to a set of doors near the top, she found them impossible to pry open or peek through. Above them another set of doors (which must open onto the passageway outside the Whispering Gallery) proved equally immovable. Then, squeezing past the winch and machinery at the top of the elevator shaft (if the elevator had started just then, she’d have been killed), Kate discovered that a vent cover she’d spotted was welded shut. The vent was too tiny to climb through, anyway. She did manage to peer down through it, if only to make the following, discouraging mental notes:
In the foyer: two Recruiters, very big and dangerous-looking, both wearing shock-watches. Behind them: thick metal door, three manual locks in addition to an electronic keypad, one of the locks a combination. Air ducts: too small for Constance to fit through, even if greased. Ceiling: inaccessible. Windows: none.
No windows, Kate thought, and no hope for entry. She couldn’t even get to the room outside the computer room, much less into the computer room itself. It was hard to resist a sigh. She’d had grand visions of sabotaging the Whisperer, destroying its computers all by herself. Ripping out cables, crushing components, stealing mysterious gizmos that could not be replaced. Not only would she be regarded as a hero, she would prove once and for all that she could do everything alone — that she needed no one’s help. But now she saw she could do no such thing. Not this time.
Kate stiffened. In her disappointment she had let her mind wander, and only now became aware that one of the Recruiters was peering into the darkness in her direction.
“McCraig,” the Recruiter said to his partner, “do you see something odd behind the vent there?”
McCraig pulled out a flashlight. Nothing behind the vent. “Probably a mouse.”
“A talking mouse?”
“That’s not coming from the vent, you idiot. That’s the Executives coming up the steps. Got a new one taking the tour tonight, remember?”
Kate, who had pulled back just in time, also heard the voices. They were just on the other side of the wall.
“— part of your training,” S.Q. was saying, his voice growing louder. “After I show you the ropes up here, you and I meet with Mr. Curtain so he can explain some things to you.”
“Yes, you’ve already said that,” said a testy voice. Martina Crowe. “But why are you coming to the meeting? You’ve been an Executive for almost a year now.”
“Well, you probably haven’t noticed,” S.Q. said, “but I’m a little slow on the pick-up. Mr. Curtain sometimes has me sit in on these tutorials, to refresh my memory about certain things.”
Kate heard a derisive snort, then Jackson’s voice saying, “Hold on, you two.” She leaned and peeked through the vent again, but couldn’t see him. The entrance from the tower steps was out of view.
“McCraig,” she heard Jackson say to the Recruiter. “
Everything fine up here? Nothing unusual going on tonight?”
“I’m telling you, Jackson,” said S.Q.’s voice, “it was probably a mouse.”
“We got mice, too,” said McCraig. “Other than that all’s fine.”
“Jackson takes his guard duty very seriously,” S.Q. said knowingly.
“Hey, it’s Mr. Curtain who wants security stepped up,” Jackson snapped. “You got a problem with Mr. Curtain, S.Q.?”
“Of course not! I was just saying . . .”
Kate didn’t hear the rest. She was already easing her way down the elevator shaft again. She needed to beat Jackson back down so she could slip out. And then? What was this about a meeting with Mr. Curtain? Maybe the night didn’t have to be an entire loss. The trouble would be finding a way to eavesdrop on his office. Too risky going into the Institute Control Building. But maybe she could find another way.
“And so you see, Martina,” Mr. Curtain said, rolling out from behind his desk, “after the Improvement most people will be much happier.”
“But not all,” said S.Q. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Curtain?”
“Quite right, S.Q. Unfortunately, there are some people whose natures incline them to be sad when others are happy.”
Martina was smiling. “May I assume,” she said in a sly tone, “that these poor souls would not only be unhappy — which certainly is tragic enough — but might also . . . cause trouble? Am I right that brainsweeping will not only help them feel better, it will make them more manageable?”
“You understand perfectly,” said Mr. Curtain with an approving look. “And S.Q., I believe that explanation should satisfy you, as well.”
If the explanation had not satisfied S.Q., it had nonetheless created in him the strong impression that he ought to be satisfied, and so he laughed and said, “I see, yes. Of course.”
Martina leaned forward in her chair. “One thing I’m still unclear on, though, is how brainsweeping works. It doesn’t actually erase the memories?”
“Not at all,” Mr. Curtain said. “Anyone who knows anything about the human mind understands that it never truly forgets anything. To completely erase memories is impossible. What is possible, however, is hiding memories from their owners. To use my favorite comparison, we sweep the old memories under a mental rug — hence the word ‘brainsweeping’ — and there they remain hidden away, with no one the wiser.”
“And everyone happier,” S.Q. said.
“Yes, S.Q.,” said Mr. Curtain with a significant look at Martina. She was a brand new Executive, but already understood far more than S.Q. ever would. “Yes, my friend. Everyone’s happier.”
“Isn’t it amazing?” S.Q. said to Martina. “I get goose bumps every time I learn it.”
“It is much the same with fears, you know,” Mr. Curtain said. “S.Q., do you believe you have it down now? Would you like to explain to Martina how the Whisperer deals with fears?”
“Oh, yes, of course I would,” said S.Q., reddening. “That is, I would, but, um —”
“But you’ve forgotten?” Mr. Curtain snapped, flashing a sneaky half-grin at Martina. (Apparently he took pleasure in toying with S.Q., which no doubt explained why Mr. Curtain hadn’t booted him off the island years ago.)
“Forgotten? Oh, no!” S.Q. cried in dismay. “No, I wouldn’t say I’ve forgotten — you know, nothing is ever truly forgotten, you said so yourself, sir, ha ha —” He coughed. “It’s just that, uh, you’re so much more elegant than I am.”
“I daresay that’s true. Perhaps you also find me more eloquent than you. Very well, S.Q., I shall explain it, and you may nod along as always.”
S.Q. nodded.
Mr. Curtain turned to Martina. “You recall how your fears seem to disappear when you’re seated in the Whisperer, do you not?”
Martina’s expression sharpened with hunger. “Absolutely,” she breathed.
S.Q. nodded.
“Of course you do. Again, the magic is in the messages. My Whisperer rewards your cooperation by sending extremely high-power messages that deny your fears. A simple procedure. Fears lurk just beneath the surface and are easy to detect.”
S.Q. nodded.
“So it’s just a wonderful illusion!” Martina said. “That explains why the fears come back later. I’ve always wondered about that — when I’m in the Whisperer they seem to have gone away forever.”
Mr. Curtain laughed. “Sadly, no. The only way fears truly disappear is if you confront them. But who in the world wishes to confront his or her worst fears?”
“Not me!” Martina said.
S.Q., already beginning to nod, checked himself and shook his head.
“Nobody does,” said Mr. Curtain. “And now we are on the brink of offering the same peaceful contentment on a much grander scale. After the Improvement, you see, everyone’s greatest fear shall be drowned out by a message much like the ones you receive in the Whisperer. It will be grand!”
“I can’t wait!” S.Q. cried, unable to contain himself. “To think that so many people will be so happy!”
Mr. Curtain chuckled. “You don’t have long to wait, S.Q. My modifications have gone much more quickly than I even hoped. I now fully expect the Improvement to begin the day after tomorrow — perhaps even sooner.”
“The day after tomorrow!” Martina exclaimed. “I had no idea!”
“Yes, you’re very lucky,” Mr. Curtain said. “You’re the last Executive promoted before the Improvement. It’s a proud tradition, Martina. Several generations of Executives have come before you, many of whom were dispatched to the four corners of the world to prepare for the Improvement. In fact, many have become important government officials.”
“What will I be doing?” Martina asked, her eyes shining with anticipation.
“You’ll start by helping with the Sweepers,” said Mr. Curtain. “You’ve been to the Memory Terminal, yes? S.Q. showed you the Sweepers?”
“We just came from there. They look exactly like the Whisperer.”
“True, but they are much less powerful,” said Mr. Curtain, “and much less sophisticated. The Whisperer, Martina, is a sensitive, delicately balanced machine that requires my strict guidance for its proper function. Only my Whisperer can bring about the Improvement.”
Here Mr. Curtain paused, his face adopting an expression of fond reverie.
“So the Sweepers just bury memories,” Martina said. “Nothing fancy.”
“Correct,” said Mr. Curtain. “They are much simpler tools than the Whisperer, hardly more sophisticated than metal brooms. Otherwise my Executives would be unable to operate them.”
This time it was Martina who nodded and S.Q. who did not. In fact, S.Q. now wore an unusually serious expression.
“Um, sir?” S.Q. said timidly, raising his hand. “A thought just occurred to me.”
Mr. Curtain raised his eyebrows. “That’s remarkable, S.Q. What is it?”
“Shouldn’t we be asking people’s permission? I mean, if we’re putting things in their heads, shouldn’t we ask them first?”
Martina’s jaw dropped with disbelief, but Mr. Curtain was long used to the workings of S.Q.’s mind. In fact, S.Q. had asked this question before, more than once, but had forgotten. With more amusement than impatience, Mr. Curtain answered, “If we ask permission, S.Q., then it doesn’t work. Do you want people to be happy, or don’t you?”
“Oh, I do!”
“Then the answer is no, we should not be asking permission. Do you see?”
Relieved, S.Q. nodded.
“And so, Martina,” Mr. Curtain concluded, “you may now anticipate the Improvement with pleasure. As I said, by the day after tomorrow we —” Mr. Curtain’s attention shifted to the drain cover in his office floor. “How odd. I thought I heard something in the drain.”
“Maybe it’s a mouse,” S.Q. ventured.
“What’s that drain for, anyway?” asked Martina.
“Would you like to tell her, S.Q.?” said Mr. Curtain, still peering
toward the saucer-sized grate. “I suspect that’s something you do remember, grisly details being the most memorable.”
“Oh, yes, sir!” replied S.Q., eager to prove his knowledge. He cleared his throat importantly. “You see, Martina, back in the early days, when the Institute was being built and a colony of workers lived on the island, this room was used as the butchery. There was always a lot of blood, of course, gallons of it, and the butchers would wash it down that drain. The drain connects to a culvert, which carried everything off to the harbor. They say sharks used to gather in the waters there, drawn by the scent of blood, and workers would fling mice out for them to snap up. . . .”
Here S.Q.’s face brightened. He’d suddenly remembered something else, and it was rare that he remembered two different things in so short a time. “You know what, Mr. Curtain? Jackson heard a mouse, too, not half an hour ago. We’re having a real problem with them lately.”
“The real problem,” said Mr. Curtain, “is that we hear these mice but never see them.”
Rolling to his desk, he took up a pot of hot water S.Q. had brought him for his tea. “It may be that our mice have grown better at hiding. However, it occurs to me that although the drainpipe is mouse-sized, the culvert is human-sized, and would provide a perfect hiding place for some bold eavesdropper who managed to find its entrance.” Even as he spoke, he shot across the room and dumped the steaming contents of the pot down the drain.
He waited, listening carefully, but not a sound reached him save the gurgling of the hot water as it drained away. “Hmm. Perhaps it was a mouse, after all, or the echo of harbor traffic. Pipes do have strange acoustic effects.” For a moment he stared at the empty pot in his hand, somewhat lost in thought, then said, “I do want my tea, however. S.Q., run over to the cafeteria and bring me another pot of water. And some pastries, too. Here, I’d better write it down for you.”
The note Mr. Curtain handed to S.Q. had nothing to do with tea or pastries. It read: Go at once to the culvert opening on the south shore. Bring Jackson along. If you find no one, scour the sand near the opening for footprints. Hurry!