“The messages appear to be in a kind of code,” Mr. Benedict continued. “They come across like poetic gibberish. But from early on I’ve had reason to believe they’re having a powerful effect — a most unfortunate effect — on those who receive them, which is to say almost everyone. In fact, I believe these messages are the source of the phenomenon commonly known as the Emergency — though, I admit, I don’t know to what end. And so I have devoted myself to discovering their ultimate purpose and who it is that sends them. Unfortunately, I’ve not entirely succeeded.”
“But you’ve learned a great deal!” protested Number Two.
“Certainly I have. I know, for instance, how the messages are being delivered —”
“And where they’re sent from!” Rhonda said impatiently.
“And what the Sender is capable of doing!” cried Number Two.
Obviously Rhonda and Number Two were worried the children might misjudge Mr. Benedict. Sensing this, he gave an appreciative smile. “Yes, my friends, it’s true. We do know some things. For instance, we know the Sender uses children to deliver the hidden messages.”
“Children?” Sticky said. “Why children?”
“And what exactly do the messages say?” Reynie asked.
“When you’re quite finished with your breakfasts, I’ll show you. In the meantime, let me tell you —”
“Please, can’t breakfast wait?” Kate interrupted. “Let us see right now!”
“Well, if you all feel this way . . . ,” said Mr. Benedict, noting their looks of impatience.
This time not even Constance resisted (perhaps because she was already full), and so the children were taken straightaway up to the third floor, down a long narrow hallway, and at last into a room packed with equipment. It was a terrific mess. On a table against the wall sat a television, a radio, and a computer, and upon every other available surface were scattered countless tools, wires, books and charts and notebooks, disconnected antennas, disassembled gadgets, and various other unrecognizable oddments. There was hardly anywhere to step as Mr. Benedict — closely attended by Rhonda and Number Two — led them over to the television.
“Listen carefully,” Mr. Benedict said, turning on the television.
Instantly Reynie felt his skin crawl. It was a familiar feeling, he realized, but he had never paid it much attention before. Meanwhile, a news program had appeared on the screen. A red-haired reporter with shiny gold earrings stood outside the White House, where a crowd of people had gathered, as usual, to wave signs and demand something be done about the Emergency.
“They’re calling for change,” said the reporter, her features gathered in an expression of thoughtful seriousness, “and their cries are not falling on deaf ears. The President has repeated his agreement that something must be done, and soon. Meanwhile, in the halls of Congress —”
Constance gave a loud yawn. “I don’t hear anything unusual.”
The other children looked at Mr. Benedict. It was rude of Constance to say it that way, but she was right.
Mr. Benedict nodded. “Now pay attention, please. Number Two, engage the Receiver.”
Number Two sat at the computer and with quick, agile fingers, typed a string of commands. The television screen flickered; its picture grew distorted. The children could still make out the wavery image of the news reporter gesturing toward the crowd behind her, but her voice faded away, replaced by that of a child.
“What in the world?” Kate said.
“Just listen,” said Number Two.
The unseen child — it sounded like a girl about Kate’s age — spoke in a plodding, whispery monotone, her voice half-drowned in static. At first only a few random words were clear enough to be understood: “Market . . . too free to be . . . obfuscate . . .” Number Two typed more commands into the computer; the interference lessened considerably, and the child’s words came clearly now, slipping through the faint static in a slow drone:
“THE MISSING AREN’T MISSING, THEY’RE ONLY DEPARTED.
ALL MINDS KEEP ALL THOUGHTS — SO LIKE GOLD — CLOSELY GUARDED. . . .”
Again the words were overcome by static. Number Two muttered under her breath. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, and the child’s slow, whispery voice returned:
“GROW THE LAWN AND MOW THE LAWN.
ALWAYS LEAVE THE TV ON.
BRUSH YOUR TEETH AND KILL THE GERMS.
POISON APPLES, POISON WORMS.”
It went on like this. The child’s voice never faltered, never ceased, but delivered the curious phrases in an eerie, chantlike progression. The news reporter, meanwhile, had vanished from the distorted picture, replaced by a cheerful-looking weather forecaster, but it continued to be the child’s voice they heard. Mr. Benedict signaled Number Two, whose fingers flew over the computer keyboard. The child’s voice faded. The weather forecaster was promising clear skies by afternoon.
Mr. Benedict switched off the television. On the blank television screen the children could suddenly see their reflections. Every one of them was frowning. When they realized this, their faces all adopted looks of surprise, then of intense curiosity.
“What does ‘obfuscate’ mean?” asked Constance.
Sticky, as if someone had pulled a string in his back, promptly answered, “To make so confused or opaque as to be difficult to perceive, or to otherwise render indistinct.”
Constance looked frightened.
“It means to make things muddled,” Reynie said.
“Thank you for the dictionary definition, Sticky,” said Mr. Benedict, “and thank you, Reynie, for the translation.” He crossed his arms and regarded the children. “This child’s voice is currently being transmitted on every television, radio, and cell phone in the world. Which means, of course, it is being absorbed by millions of minds. And yet, although in an important part of every mind this child’s messages are being heard, understood, and taken seriously, in another part — the part that is aware of itself — the messages remain undetected. But this Receiver I’ve invented is capable of detecting and translating them, much as Reynie translated Sticky’s definition a moment ago.”
“But how could people who speak different languages understand that kid?” Kate asked. “What about people in Spain?”
“The messages transmit in every language. I’ve tuned the Receiver to English only because that’s what we all speak.”
“This is too creepy,” Sticky said, glancing nervously behind him. “It’s like . . . like . . .”
“Like having a strange person whisper in your ear while you sleep?” Mr. Benedict suggested.
“Okay, that just made it creepier,” Sticky said.
Reynie was shaking his head wonderingly. “How is this happening, Mr. Benedict? These messages — whatever they are — how are they being sent?”
“To put it simply,” Mr. Benedict began, “they depend for their mobility upon external agents —”
“Mr. Benedict, that’s hardly putting it simply,” interrupted Rhonda with a significant look at Constance, whose face had darkened with frustration.
“Forgive me. You’re quite right. Simply put, the messages ride piggyback on signals. Television, radio, cell phones — all these things make use of invisible signals, and the Sender has found a way to take advantage. The messages aren’t picky; they will ride on any kind of signal. The Sender has discovered how to control the adhesive property of thoughts.”
“The what?” asked the children all together.
“The adhesive property of thoughts. That is, the way thoughts are drawn to signals and then stick to them — much as little pieces of metal may be drawn to a magnet. They’re attracted to all kinds of signals, even other thoughts.”
“So the messages are just thoughts?” Kate said.
“Indeed,” Mr. Benedict replied. “Although I wouldn’t say ‘just.’ Thoughts carry a great deal of freight.”
“But why does the Sender use children to send them?” Reynie asked.
“A devilis
h trick,” said Mr. Benedict, “and a necessary one. You see, only a child’s thoughts can be slipped into the mind so secretly. For some reason, they go unnoticed.”
“No surprise there,” Constance humphed. “I’ve never met a grown-up who believed me capable of thought.”
“She’s absolutely right,” put in Number Two with a sharp edge in her voice. “People pay no attention to what children say, much less to what they think!”
Rhonda patted Number Two’s shoulder. “Number Two is a bit testy about this. She was often ignored as a child.”
“That doesn’t change the truth!” Number Two snarled.
“Easy now,” said Rhonda. “Only teasing.”
“Sorry. Blood sugar’s low,” said Number Two, hastily unwrapping a granola bar.
“At any rate,” Mr. Benedict continued, “I believe the Sender uses children as a sort of filter. After passing through the minds of children, the messages become virtually undetectable. Where adult thoughts would lumber into the mind like an elephant, children’s creep in on cat feet and find a shadowy place to hide.”
“Nobody notices them at all?” Sticky asked.
“Oh, some may be vaguely aware of mental activity,” Mr. Benedict said, “but if so, they attribute the uneasy sensation to something else. They think, perhaps, they’ve had an original idea, or have drunk too much coffee.”
“I don’t recall ever having felt that way,” said Constance. “Like something’s happening but I don’t know what.”
The others shook their heads, indicating they hadn’t either.
“That is because you love the truth,” said Mr. Benedict. “You see —”
Number Two interrupted him. “Mr. Benedict, before you go on, won’t you take a seat? Makes me so nervous, you standing there like that. Too many hard things about. Just look at this chair, and the desk, and the television cabinet, and all these tools —” Turning this way and that, Number Two was pointing at almost everything she saw.
“Fine, fine, Number Two, we’ll all sit,” said Mr. Benedict, settling into a cross-legged position on the floor. He gestured for the others to join him. Shoving aside books, papers, and odd pieces of machinery, the children made room to sit. Number Two took a deep breath to calm herself.
“You see,” Mr. Benedict began again, “although most people care about the truth, they can nonetheless — under certain circumstances, and given proper persuasion — be diverted from it. Some, however, possess an unusually powerful love of truth, and you children are among the few. Your minds have been resisting the hidden messages.”
“Is that why your test asked whether we liked television and radio?” asked Reynie.
Mr. Benedict tapped his nose. “Exactly. Of course, it’s possible you enjoy watching an occasional TV show, or listening to the radio every now and then, but in general you find you don’t like it. This is because your minds, so unwilling to be deceived, are avoiding exposure to the messages.”
“I don’t see what’s dangerous about all this,” Constance said with a sour expression. “So people are receiving some kids’ thoughts and don’t realize it. That hardly seems reason to panic.”
“We haven’t yet come to the panic part,” replied Mr. Benedict gravely.
“Oh,” said Constance.
“Great,” said Sticky.
“Something is approaching,” Mr. Benedict said. “Something dreadful. These messages are connected to it, but they are only the beginning. What’s coming is worse, far worse — a looming darkness, like storm clouds sweeping in to cover the sky.”
“Wh-what,” Sticky stammered, “wh-what is it?”
Mr. Benedict scratched his rumpled head. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”
The children blinked. Was he joking? He didn’t know?
“Ah, I sense your confusion,” said Mr. Benedict. “I should have said I don’t exactly know.”
Rhonda spoke up. “We have good reason to believe in this coming threat, children. It’s just that —”
“But if you have good reason,” Constance interrupted, “why are you just sitting around? Call the government! Alert the authorities!”
“An excellent point, Constance,” said Mr. Benedict (who, it seemed to Reynie, was surprisingly tolerant of the girl’s rudeness). “In fact I was once a trusted advisor to certain high officials, many of whom presided over government agencies. But things have changed. Not only have those agencies been dismantled — and a number of good men and women gone missing — but officials formerly attentive to my remarks have grown skeptical of them. They have come to look upon me as a friendly kook, and some even regard me with suspicion. Everything I do now, I do in secret.”
“Did you just say ‘good men and women gone missing’?” asked Reynie, hoping he had misunderstood.
“Vanished,” said Mr. Benedict grimly. “Years ago, when it first came to my attention that some operatives had disappeared, I naturally inquired about them. But my questions, no matter to whom I put them — and I put them to many people — were met with an astonishing lack of regard. It was perfectly silly, I was told, to be asking such questions. Somehow it was believed that these missing agents chose to go away — were given plum assignments in sunny climates, perhaps, or else had gone into early retirement — although there was no evidence of any such thing. No one seemed to care where the agents had gone. But everyone knew, so I was told again and again, everyone knew the agents hadn’t gone missing. No, no, the very idea was preposterous.”
The children were dumbstruck. Government agents had disappeared and nobody cared? Nobody even believed it?
Reynie found his voice first. “So that’s how you know these strange messages are having an effect on people.”
Mr. Benedict nodded. “Quite right, Reynie. At least, it’s one example.”
“Wait a minute,” Kate said. “How do you know the messages have anything to do with that?”
“Because of that phrase we heard on the Receiver,” said Reynie. “‘The missing aren’t missing, they’re only departed.’ Don’t you think there’s a connection?”
“Hey, you’re right!” said Kate, who had already forgotten that phrase.
Constance seemed exasperated. “Okay, so the authorities are being snookered by these hidden messages. But how could they resist the facts? Show them your Receiver gizmo, Mr. Benedict. They’ll have to believe you.”
“I’m afraid they won’t,” said Mr. Benedict. “The Receiver would be considered insufficient evidence. For all they know, the messages might be my own invention, generated by the Receiver itself. I am no longer considered a trustworthy source of information.”
Reynie was puzzled. “But Mr. Benedict, if you explained how it worked — scientifically, I mean — how could they not believe you? Surely you can demonstrate the principles involved!”
Mr. Benedict hesitated. “A reasonable suggestion, Reynie. A very . . . Now let me see. How to put it? I can’t exactly . . . Well . . .”
Number Two interrupted him. “What Mr. Benedict is too embarrassed to say, children, is that even if he did explain it, no one would believe him because no one would understand him. That’s the downside to being a genius — just because you understand something doesn’t mean anyone else will. Mr. Benedict is too modest. He can never bring himself to say it.”
“He’s tried to explain it to any number of people,” Rhonda put in. “But not only are they skeptical to begin with, Number Two and I — and a few of the other assistants — are the only people who have understood him.”
Mr. Benedict’s cheeks and forehead had gone pink with embarrassment. He coughed. “As usual, my friends, you overstate my accomplishment. Nevertheless, the essence of what you say is true. Among the authorities these days it is difficult to find a sympathetic listener.”
“In other words, compared to you, they’re all dummies,” Kate said with a laugh.
“That is perhaps not the most polite way to put it, Kate,” said Mr. Benedict.
Unlike K
ate, the others were in no mood to laugh. Hidden messages being broadcast to the world, good men and women gone missing, the authorities beyond convincing — and the children were somehow going to be involved in all this? The prospect had caused a deep, indefinable dread to settle upon them like a cold mist.
Constance’s reaction, by now a predictable one, was to express irritation. “Fine, I get it. A lot of people have vanished without a trace, and someone’s sending out secret messages, and nobody will believe you about it. But we aren’t really in danger, are we?” (Though her tone was scoffing and irritable, it was evident from her eyes — which darted back and forth — that Constance was growing afraid.) “You said we were all in danger . . . but that was just an exaggeration, wasn’t it?”
“I am sorry to say it, Constance,” Mr. Benedict said somberly, “but I did not exaggerate in the least. You are all in danger even as we speak.”
And indeed, even as they spoke, the bell on the landing began a furious clanging.
The Men in the Maze
A great deal happened in a very short time: Mr. Benedict fell asleep, having been startled by the emergency bell, and toppled sideways into the ready arms of Number Two. The children hadn’t even time to trade looks of alarm before the bell stopped ringing, the lights went out, and Constance screamed. And then, after much jostling and elbow-bumping and fumbling in the dark, Kate found her flashlight and switched it on, and Constance was gone.
“Where’d she go?” Reynie cried.
“Maybe she went down to the landing like we’re supposed to,” said Sticky.
“Somehow I doubt it,” said Kate.
“Okay, all of you,” said Rhonda urgently as Number Two tried to shake Mr. Benedict awake, “hurry down to the landing at once. Milligan will meet you there, and he can find Constance if necessary. Number Two and I will join you as soon as Mr. Benedict wakes up. Now run!”
The children stumbled from the room — Kate leading the way with her flashlight — and out into the dark hallway. With the thunder rumbling and wind moaning and rain beating on the roof, it would be quite impossible to hear someone sneaking up on them, and the children, aware of this, clung to one another in the darkness as they found their way to the stairs. Trembling at each fresh burst of thunder, they made their way down to the landing. Kate’s flashlight beam passed over the bell, hanging silent and still, then fell upon a very sad face.
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