The Prisoner's Dilemma (8 page)

As everyone got settled—those without chairs sat amid piles of books on the floor, Milligan remained standing near the door, and Number Two hovered beside Mr. Benedict, who leaned against his book-cluttered desk—the older children fumbled to explain themselves. Mr. Benedict waved them silent.

“I haven’t called you in here to apologize,” he said, “though it
is
rather bad form to eavesdrop on your friends. In the future you must please bear that in mind.” He held up the papers Milligan had given him. “This business is what I mean to discuss. What you three heard is far more important, at the moment, than how you came to hear it.”

“And what was
that
?” Constance demanded. “Why am I always the last to know!”

“In this case,” said Mr. Benedict, glancing through the papers as he spoke, “I believe it’s because you were in the kitchen pretending to help clean up. Reynie, would you kindly summarize my conversation with Mr. Gaines and Ms. Argent? Milligan and Number Two need the details, as well. In the meantime, Rhonda, please memorize the names on these forms—Milligan and Number Two will already have done so—and then destroy them.”

As Reynie sheepishly related the details of the conversation, Rhonda flipped through the papers with a keen eye. She had an excellent memory, almost as good as Sticky’s, and in the few short minutes it took Reynie to give his account, she finished her task, shredded the papers, and took a seat on the floor next to Kate.

“An excellent summary, Reynie,” said Mr. Benedict. “Thank you. Now, I believe Constance has some questions—”

But Constance had already butted in, crying, “How did you know they were eavesdropping, Mr. Benedict? Why didn’t you send them away? It isn’t fair! And is this true about using the Whisperer to get rid of your narcolepsy? How could it do that? And how dare they think they can take it away from you! Who do they think they are?”

The little girl, her pudgy cheeks gone quite crimson with the heat of her emotions, seemed unable to decide whether to be envious, outraged, hopeful, or worried, and in her agitation—she wasn’t getting answers quickly enough to suit her, though she hadn’t allowed time for Mr. Benedict to respond—she began to repeat her questions from the beginning.

Mr. Benedict held up his hands until she fell silent. “Let me answer your questions in order, my dear. First, I have used this study for so many years, any shift in acoustics—I mean the way sound carries—is bound to draw my attention. But by the time I realized that the hollow space in the wall behind me was no longer quite so hollow, it was too late to send away the wicked spies”—he smiled at the spies in question—”without calling Mr. Gaines’s attention to their presence. That would not do, you see, for it would subject them to all sorts of disagreeable inquiries, and no doubt the Washingtons and Perumals would be dragged in as well.

“As for using the Whisperer to diminish the symptoms of my narcolepsy, what I told Mr. Gaines was the truth: It’s possible. My hope was to adapt the machine to transmit powerful messages—instructions, essentially—that could redirect certain faulty mental impulses. Whenever my brain, for instance, sent a signal to fall asleep at inappropriate moments, these new, more powerful instructions would be to ignore the signal.”

“Basically a form of hypnosis,” said Sticky, and Mr. Benedict tapped his nose.

“And you thought it might work on others, as well,” Reynie said, not a little wonderingly, for the real potential of Mr. Benedict’s project was only just now sinking in. “That would mean thousands of people—no, even more than that—why,
millions
of people might be helped…”

Mr. Benedict nodded. “You see why I thought it worth pursuing, even though my chances of success were slim at best.”

“And your nightmares?” Constance persisted. “The Old Hag and those other terrible hallucinations? Would it take care of those things, too?”

“Again, it’s possible,” Mr. Benedict said. “Indeed, a great many things were possible—possible if not probable. I even entertained some small hope of using this project to persuade my brother to surrender. Under the right circumstances, if Ledroptha found himself in a terrible spot, with no good options before him… well, I thought the promise of relief might just draw him in the right direction. A less desperate and thus more peaceful one. But as I say, my research had only just begun, and now—”

“Well, get to it!” Constance cried. “You have a little time, right? Or even more if Milligan snatches their papers again!”

“That trick isn’t likely to work twice,” said Mr. Benedict. “At any rate, we cannot afford to dwell on those possibilities now, however grand they might have been to contemplate. The situation has changed, my dear. There is no more time. Our concern now must be what we
know
the Whisperer can do if it falls into the wrong hands.”

“Gaines’s hands are the wrong ones, I can verify that,” said Milligan. “He doesn’t seem to be a spy for Curtain, but he has a lot of power and no judgment.”

“A bad combination,” said Number Two.

“He might as well be a spy,” said Rhonda. “If he succeeds in getting the Whisperer removed, he’s doing exactly what Curtain would want.”

“Because taking it out into the open makes it vulnerable?” said Kate, remembering what Mr. Benedict had said earlier.

“Yes,” said Rhonda. “When we first moved the Whisperer here—right after your mission to the Institute—Curtain was on the run and could do nothing to intercept us. He’s had time to prepare now, though. He has spies, and he most certainly has a plan.”

“I’ve been pressed to move the Whisperer before,” said Mr. Benedict. “Usually the Monk Building is suggested as a preferable location. As you know, I’ve maintained an office there—for reasons only those of us in this house are aware of—and the government has offered to secure additional space in the building for me. But it has been clear for some time that their real aim is to separate me from the Whisperer. They’ve tried to use quiet measures, small steps. Now that those have failed, they are prepared to take more extreme action.”

“Who is ‘they’” said Constance.

“Certain well-placed officials,” said Mr. Benedict. “Some are likely spies for my brother seeking a way to return his Whisperer to him. Others are more interested in seeing what they can do with it themselves. And still others, such as poor Ms. Argent, are hapless individuals caught up in the process, trying to do their jobs, uncertain where their loyalties should lie, and not quite up to the task of deciding.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Kate.

“Your lessons,” said Number Two, checking her watch.

The older children cried out in protest, and Constance wrapped her arms tightly around her knees and hissed like an angry cat.

“Perhaps we can delay the lessons,” Mr. Benedict said, laying his hand on Number Two’s arm. “I know it’s difficult to be kept in the dark. Naturally, I hate it myself. But you must understand that I cannot tell you everything, for in certain cases ignorance is your greatest protection.”

“What
can
you tell us?” asked Reynie. “How about these ‘psychological motives’ and ‘personal foibles’ that Mr. Gaines mentioned, the things you’ve found useful but the committee hasn’t?”

Mr. Benedict tapped his nose. “That is something I can tell you about. In my opinion my brother Ledroptha’s motivations are worth a great deal of consideration. Not just what he does, but why he does it. The better we know these things, the better we can predict his next move, and I believe my conversations with his former Executives have been most instructive in this respect.”

“I’ve wondered how instructive they could be,” said Sticky. “We know Martina wanted revenge against Mr. Curtain for abandoning her—but she didn’t really know much, did she? And Jackson and Jillson were Executives a long time, but I can’t imagine they’ve been very cooperative.”

“Oh no,” said Mr. Benedict with a chuckle. “They have done their best to be obstructive. But in the process they have given away more than they realize. Most notably, they revealed that S.Q. Pedalian received far more sessions in the Whisperer than the other Executives did.”

The children frowned in surprise. They all knew from their mission to the Institute what these “sessions” were about; Mr. Curtain had given them to his Executives as a reward, which helped ensure their loyalty. And Reynie and Sticky, in particular, remembered all too well how “happy” the machine made you feel when you thought what it wanted you to think—what Mr.
Curtain
wanted you to think—an effect it accomplished by suppressing your greatest fears. Even if you knew the truth about the Whisperer’s darker purposes (as the boys had known), the feeling it gave you—that fleeting yet powerful illusion of well-being—left you yearning for more.

“Why would S.Q. get more sessions?” Kate asked. “He was already the most loyal Executive in the bunch!”

“Maybe he was loyal
because
of the extra sessions,” Sticky suggested.

“But why would Mr. Curtain give them to him?” Constance said. “Why would he want to keep S.Q. around in the first place? That guy’s about as smart as a lump of oatmeal.”

“Poor fellow, it’s not his fault,” said Kate. “And he’s really kind-hearted, you know.”

“I
do
know,” said Constance, “which makes me wonder even more why Mr. Curtain would want him.”

“You are asking all the right questions,” said Mr. Benedict, “and I am making it your assignment to reflect upon the best answer to them. You must continue with your other lessons in the meantime, of course.”

“Can’t you tell us what
you
think?” Sticky asked.

“Now where would be the fun in that?” said Mr. Benedict, and he took a folded slip of paper from his desk. “As a compromise gesture, however, I have composed a modest riddle that I believe to be pertinent. No doubt you’ll soon have solved it.”

“Oh, but please!” pressed Kate, rising along with the other children (all straining for a glimpse of the riddle). “If you think we can solve it so fast, then why must we wait…” She trailed off, noting Mr. Benedict’s raised eyebrows, a sure sign that she had missed something. She turned to Reynie, who shrugged resignedly and said, “The assignment isn’t to
find
the best answer, remember? It’s to reflect upon it.”

Mr. Benedict smiled. “Sometimes the answer is only the beginning, as you well know. Now, I promise we’ll discuss this again, but in the meantime we must all turn to other tasks. Lessons, in your case, which reminds me…” Mr. Benedict laced his fingers together and gazed in an encouraging way at Constance. “Your friends have agreed to participate in a new exercise I’ve devised. I wonder if you would be willing yourself? I think you might enjoy this one…”

By the time Mr. Benedict had explained his idea, Constance was clapping her hands and bouncing in place, quite giddy with anticipation. The other children looked at one another and shifted uncomfortably.

“Wonderful!” Mr. Benedict said. “How about tomorrow, then? Moocho tells me he has the necessary ingredients, and Milligan has agreed to secure the ice cream, so if tomorrow suits you—say, just after lunch?”

“As soon as possible!” Constance cried.

“Tomorrow it is, then,” said Mr. Benedict. “In the meantime, my friends, you’ll have my riddle to consider—”

“And their afternoon lessons,” prompted Number Two, snatching the slip of paper before the children could grab it.

“And your afternoon lessons,” Mr. Benedict agreed. “So off you go!”

A
s soon as they had finished doing their lessons (or in Constance’s case, avoiding them), the children raced upstairs. All afternoon the coveted slip of paper had peeked tantalizingly from the pocket of Number Two’s yellow blazer, but at last they were in possession of it. They had a full hour before supper, time enough to take a crack at the riddle.

Flinging her jacket onto a peg, Kate threw open the window (the girls’ room was on the overheated third floor), then collected her friends’ jackets and cardigans and hung them tidily in the closet. This room was the tidiest in the house—no small miracle considering who occupied it, but not even Constance’s willful slovenliness could withstand the attentions of her tireless roommate. Kate would no sooner leave shoes out to be tripped over than she would leave her bottle of super-strength glue uncapped. The girls’ room, therefore, with its uncluttered, spotless rug, was always the natural place for the Society’s meetings.

“Hurry
up,
Kate,” said Constance, who had just sat down. “You’re always making us wait!”

“I know, it’s terrible,” Kate replied carelessly, and she somersaulted onto the rug next to Constance as Reynie and Sticky settled down across from them.

Reynie unfolded the slip of paper. “Okay,” he said, glancing up at the others, and after a short, tension-filled pause, he began to read aloud:

The answer to this riddle has a hole in the middle,

And some have been known to fall in it.

In tennis it’s nothing, but it can be received,

And sometimes a person may win it.

Though not seen or heard it may yet be perceived,

Like princes or bees it’s in clover.

The answer to this riddle has a hole in the middle,

And without it one cannot start over.

“It’s a trap!” Sticky cried with such vehemence that Reynie wrenched around, half-expecting to see a Ten Man leering from the doorway, and Kate snatched up her bucket and flew to the window.

Sticky glanced wildly about, his heart pounding. “What is it? What’s going on?”

Kate was peering intently into the courtyard, where Mr. Bane sat on the bench eating sunflower seeds and spitting out the shells. “All clear outside, as far as I can gather. Constance, is there someone in the hall?”

“N-no, I don’t think so,” said Constance in a shaky voice.

“What makes you think there’s a trap?” said Kate, spinning around to look seriously at Sticky. “What kind of trap?”

Sticky blinked in confusion. He turned to Reynie, who had just covered his face with his hands. At first Sticky thought he was sobbing—his shoulders were shaking—but then with a great spluttering guffaw Reynie collapsed backward onto the floor, laughing and laughing.