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!
S.Q. read the note, read it again, glanced up to express his puzzlement, and saw Mr. Curtain lay a finger to his lips. Understanding dawned on him then, and tripping in his great haste, he left the room.
Kate’s ear had been to the pipe when she heard the splash — she’d barely had time to jerk her head back before the hot water gushed out. Even then, a little splashed onto her neck, and it was all Kate could do to hold in a gasp. Then she heard Mr. Curtain send S.Q. away, and suspecting a trap, she beat a quick retreat down the culvert to the shore.
As she emerged into the night air, Kate spotted two figures (S.Q. and Jackson, though in the dark she couldn’t tell this) burst out from behind the Institute Control Building and race across the plaza for the shore. In moments they would be upon her. There was nowhere to go but the water. Kate plunged in and dove deep. It was shockingly cold — too cold for sharks, she hoped, for what S.Q. had said just before Mr. Curtain dumped the water was much on her mind. That butchery business was long ago; surely by now the sharks would be out of the habit of congregating here. She hoped. Anyway, she could hardly return to shore, so in the water she must stay.
Fortunately Kate was an excellent swimmer. Heading out into the channel, she stayed underwater as long as she could, emerged briefly to gulp air, and dove under again. When at last she surfaced and looked back, she’d put a good distance between herself and the shore, and saw to her relief that she wasn’t being pursued. Perhaps she hadn’t even been seen. Good. She would just need to swim down the coastline and find a safe, inconspicuous place to sneak aground.
Kate turned, looked at the water ahead, and gasped.
She’d seen what she expected to be the last thing she ever saw. A shape, triangular and black, slicing toward her through the dark water. Fear coursed through her body like an electric shock. She braced herself for the brutal, daggerlike teeth, and in that split second of waiting, managed to wonder if it would be the shark’s bite that killed her, or if instead she would be snatched away, deep down, to drown in a bloody darkness.
In the next moment, she saw that the shark fin was only a rock.
The fear drained away, but the aftereffects of panic remained, sharpening Kate’s senses. With her heart thudding like bass drums in her ears, she looked around. Jagged rocks pierced the water surface all about her. Amid the murk of night and the sloshing of a thousand tiny waves, most of them appeared to be moving. More than a few resembled shark fins. Perhaps a few even were.
“Good grief,” she said, for she had no choice but to swim right through them. She’d have to be careful not to cut herself to ribbons on their sharp edges. And she’d have to hope none of them were actually sharks.