Constance, who felt very desperate indeed, could not control herself. “Rest?” she sneered. “I thought what we needed was laughter. Isn’t that what stupid old Benedict said? Well, hardy har har, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re hopeless,” said Kate, who’d been in an awful mood to begin with and now had lost all patience. “Reynie’s right. Let’s go back to our room.” She scurried up her rope into the ceiling, and as she hauled Constance after her she whispered down: “We’ll be back before dawn. Or I will, at least. If she’s still acting like this, she can rot in our room, for all I care.”
The gap in the ceiling closed.
Reynie and Sticky looked at each other. Everything seemed to be falling apart, and neither boy could hide his worry. It was written plainly on both their faces.
“If you think of anything at all . . . ,” Reynie said.
Sticky nodded. “I’ll wake you up. You do the same.”
Fully dressed and fully miserable, the boys climbed into their beds, still going over the message again and again in their heads. Laughter is the best medicine, laughter is the best medicine. . . . By midnight, neither had come up with anything. By one o’clock, Sticky was whimpering himself to sleep. By two o’clock, Reynie was abandoning his last letter to Miss Perumal, starting over, then abandoning the new one as well — too anxious even to think about being anxious. His mind returned to Mr. Benedict’s message.
“Why laughter?” he wondered for the hundredth time. “Why medicine? It’s something . . . something that cures an illness or . . . or solves a problem, maybe, but what problem?”
But the answer remained maddeningly elusive. Reynie decided he would have to stay awake. There was no way he could sleep, anyway, not until he had figured out the message. Having made this decision, he sighed, rolled over to get comfortable . . . and fell asleep.
Some time before dawn Reynie awoke with a start. His mind had been working furiously as he slept. He swung down off his bunk and shook Sticky. Sticky opened one eye, then closed it to open the other, as if too afraid now to look at the world with both at once.
“Wha —?”
“Sticky, wake up.”
This time Sticky blinked both eyes. “Hmm? What time is —?” He sniffed and rubbed his head, coming slightly more awake. “Oh, has something happened?”
“I have an idea about what Mr. Benedict meant,” Reynie said excitedly. “I just don’t think it’s quite right yet. I think maybe it’s half right. Let me tell you about it, and then you tell me what you think.”
Sticky sat up, fully awake now. “I’m all ears.”
But no sooner had Reynie begun than a knock sounded on their door, and S.Q. Pedalian, not waiting for a response, poked his head into their room. “What, already up? Good boys! You must have guessed all the other Messengers are down for the count, and Mr. Curtain needs you again right away. He’s had to cancel half his night sessions thanks to this stomach bug. Good thing you two are already over it, eh? Can you imagine anything worse than not being able to go when Mr. Curtain summons you?”
The moment had arrived too soon! No one had expected such an early morning session. Snatching a pen from his desk, Reynie scribbled something on the palm of his hand.
“What are you doing?” S.Q. said.
“Just writing down something I don’t want to forget.”
“I do that sometimes,” S.Q. reflected, “only I usually forget I wrote something on my hand, and I wash it off before I remember. What are you writing?”
“Remind me to tell you later,” Reynie said.
“Right — now hurry and get dressed. Don’t want to keep Mr. Curtain waiting.”
The boys threw on their clothes and followed S.Q. out the door. In the corridor a few weak-kneed, pasty-faced students were making their way to and from the bathrooms, and a group of silent Helpers worked double-duty to keep the floors mopped. S.Q., cheerful now that he’d made up for his earlier blunder, smiled and patted the miserable students as he passed. “Hang in there! Chins up! Look on the bright side — it could always be worse!”
The trip to the Whispering Gallery didn’t seem nearly long enough. The blindfolding, the walk to the secret entrance, the exhausting climb up countless steps — all of it seemed to pass in one excruciating instant. Then S.Q. was removing their blindfolds and pressing the intercom button. “Reynard Muldoon and Stic . . . er, George Washington here for their sessions, Mr. Curtain!”
Mr. Curtain’s voice came through a speaker: “They must wait. Meanwhile, bring me more juice.”
In his most authoritative tone (which was not very authoritative), S.Q. ordered the boys not to stir from that spot. After they assured him that such a thing would never have occurred to them, he hastened back down the steps.
“Let’s run!” Sticky whispered.
“No, listen, we still have a chance,” said Reynie. “You have to go first, Sticky, and make your session last as long as you can. If you resist the Whisperer at the very beginning, while you still have strength, you might be able to stretch out the session —”
Sticky’s jaw dropped. “Resist it? But Mr. Curtain will suspect something! He’ll notice it, you know he will. He’ll send me back to the Waiting Room! He’ll —” Sticky began to shake all over. “He’ll turn the Whisperer on me! I’ll be brainswept!”
“I know the risks,” Reynie said. “But this is our only shot.”
Sticky’s horrified expression shifted into one of anger. “Why don’t you go first, then? Why don’t you be the one to resist it, if you’re so brave?”
“I need to try to signal the girls,” Reynie said. He grabbed Sticky’s arm. “We can still do this, Sticky!”
Sticky looked doubtful, even suspicious. “How do you propose to signal the girls? How —?”
The Whispering Gallery door slid open and Martina Crowe came out, her expression pleasantly befuzzed. She was so content she almost didn’t bother to sneer at them. Almost. But then she stopped and made an effort.
Reynie returned the sneer with his best fake smile. “Did you just have a session with the Whisperer? I thought you were an Executive now.”
“I’m such a young Executive, I can still do Messenger work in a pinch,” Martina boasted. “And this is definitely a pinch. I’ve never seen so many upchucking kids in my life.”
“You haven’t gotten sick?”
“Sick of being hungry, is all. I was so busy capturing that spy last night, I missed supper. That’s the price you pay for being an Executive, doing the important work. Not that you boys would know anything about that.” With an immensely self-satisfied and condescending expression, Martina walked on, saying over her shoulder, “Hurry on in, boys. I’m off to another duty. You’ll notice I don’t have to wear a blindfold, either.”
The moment she was out of earshot Reynie whispered, “You have to trust me on this, Sticky. To give us a chance, you have to go first. It’s our only hope.”
Sticky’s face was a mask of doubt.
“Boys, get in here!” Mr. Curtain called.
Reynie tried to make one last plea to his friend, but Sticky turned and plunged into the Whispering Gallery without looking back.
Reynie had no choice but to follow. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the Whispering Gallery . . . where his breath escaped like air from a balloon. There it was! The Whisperer! Reynie’s eyelids fluttered. Stepping into its presence was like stepping into a warm bath. He wanted to take his seat in it and never climb out.
You have to fight, Reynie told himself, and with great effort he tore his eyes from the seductive machine to look at Mr. Curtain.
Mr. Curtain seemed tired but eager. “Welcome, boys. I trust you are fully recovered? You have your strength up?”