“Yes, sir,” the boys said together.
“I hope so! Only a tiny handful of Messengers have recovered, and I’ve worn them all out. You saw I resorted to using an Executive — a rare thing, as older children are so much less effective. But I’ve been put off my schedule and am raging against the delay. If only this infernal stomach sickness hadn’t emerged, my project would already be complete!”
“Sorry to hear that, sir,” said Reynie.
“No matter, my young friend. The problem will soon be rectified, for I intend to finish right now!”
Reynie sucked in his breath.
“You mean . . . you mean . . . ,” Sticky stammered.
“I see you’re quite tongue-tied by the honor. That’s right, George, you boys shall personally preside over the completion of my project. If all goes well, that is.”
The boys forced weak smiles.
Mr. Curtain clapped his hands together. “Now, here is our task. First we shall have a last session devoted to old material — the last of the lessons. Then we shall have a session of entirely new material. Material hot off the presses!” Mr. Curtain waved his journal triumphantly. “I’ve just completed it.”
Reynie tried to stall. “Shouldn’t we take time to study it, sir?”
“No, Reynard, in this case simplicity is essential. My Whisperer is designed to soothe troubled minds, and nothing soothes the mind more effectively than a simple answer to a complicated problem.”
“Mr. Curtain, sir?” Sticky asked. “Do you still plan to close the Institute?”
At this unexpected question, Reynie glanced sharply at Sticky. Was he stalling, too, or was it the opposite — had Sticky already given up?
Mr. Curtain chuckled. “Don’t worry, George, I haven’t forgotten you. The other students will be sent home tomorrow — I have chosen to answer a higher calling and will be serving the public in a much grander capacity — but I have you boys in mind as personal assistants, to be groomed as Executives as you mature.”
“You . . . you really do want us, then?” Sticky asked.
“But of course I do,” Mr. Curtain said, with an encouraging smile. “I could use you both! And the sooner the Improvement begins, the sooner you’ll begin your new life. What better motivation to perform well, eh?”
Sticky’s lip quivered.
“I’m here with the juice, sir,” S.Q.’s voice called through the intercom speaker.
“Finally,” Mr. Curtain grumbled, his smile instantly vanishing, as fake smiles often do. He pushed a button on the arm of his wheelchair.
Reynie, who had been watching Sticky in bleak despair, noted which button Mr. Curtain pressed. If Kate and Constance managed to come, he could open the door. But what were the chances of that? First Sticky would need to resist Mr. Curtain’s invitation — and with the pull of the Whisperer so powerful, with Mr. Curtain now so likely to succeed, could Reynie hold out hope for this?
S.Q. brought their juice and tripped out again; Mr. Curtain sipped from his paper cup with an expression of eager contemplation, and then the moment had arrived. “Very well, Reynard, let’s improve the world. You may take your seat in the Whisperer now.”
Reynie stared pleadingly at Sticky, whose expression was impossible to read. What was going on in his head?
As it happened, Sticky himself did not know.
There had been times in Sticky’s life when an important question would flummox him no matter how well he knew the answer; and times he had run away from his problems; and times when he’d felt himself paralyzed when action was most needed. He’d never understood this tendency of his — he knew only that he rarely lived up to expectation, and for this reason had clung so fiercely to his nickname. Any boy with a name like George Washington must surely have great things expected of him.
And yet, in these last days, he’d become friends with people who cared about him, quite above and beyond what was expected of him. With perfect clarity he remembered Reynie saying, “I need you here as a friend.” The effect of those words, and of all his friendships, had grown stronger and stronger, until — though he couldn’t say why he didn’t feel mixed up now — at the most desperate moment yet, he knew it to be true. There was bravery in him. It only had to be drawn out.
So it was that Sticky stepped in front of Reynie and said, “May I go first, Mr. Curtain? I’ve been looking forward to this ever since my last session.”
Mr. Curtain laughed his screechy laugh. “I daresay Reynard feels much the same, George. But let’s not quibble. Reynard went first last time. You may go first this time. Take your seat.”
At last Sticky met Reynie’s gaze, which was now full of gratitude and admiration. With a quick nod, Sticky turned and climbed into the Whisperer. Immediately Mr. Curtain whizzed over to sit behind him, fitted his head inside the red helmet, and barked, “Ledroptha Curtain!”
The cuffs sprang up around Sticky’s wrists. The blue helmet lowered.
“Sticky Washington,” Sticky said aloud, closing his eyes.
Reynie watched his friend’s face grow tense with the effort of resisting. He knew the Whisperer wanted Sticky’s given name.
“Sticky Washington,” Sticky repeated.
“Hold on, Sticky,” thought Reynie, his eyes darting to Mr. Curtain’s face, which seemed both tired and troubled. Had Mr. Curtain already sensed a problem? He was frowning with concentration, his eyes closed.
How long could Sticky hold on — knowing his resistance might betray him? Knowing all he must do to relieve his terror was cooperate? Knowing he was but moments away from that wonderful relief? It would be like trying not to scratch the most powerful itch anyone had ever known.
Reynie moved silently to the window.
“Sticky . . . Washington,” Sticky said again, in a much weaker voice, and Reynie knew they hadn’t much time.
Mr. Curtain’s eyes were still closed. Now was his chance. Reynie waved his hand back and forth in front of the window. It was dark outside, but the room was well-lit — his hand would be visible from outside. Back and forth he waved, back and forth, back and forth. Please, please, let somebody notice, he thought. Please, Rhonda, let it be true what you said. Through the telescope we appear to be only a few feet away. Through the telescope you watch the island constantly. Please let it be true. And please let your eyes be sharp.
With one final attention-gathering wave, he placed his hand against the glass so that the message scrawled on his palm could be read, if only someone was out there to read it: We need K & C here! Now!
The Great Kate Weather Machine
K and C, as it happened, were still in bed. It had been an awful night for Kate. Try as she might, she couldn’t forget the look in Milligan’s eyes as the Executives and Recruiters paraded him through the cafeteria. She slept poorly, in and out of a doze, constantly worried and miserable, and never once did she have a shred of an idea what to do.
Now it was almost dawn, time to rise, though rising hardly seemed worth the trouble. Worsening Kate’s mood, if that was possible, was a distant, irritating beeping sound, the erratic honking of a faraway horn. A car alarm on the mainland, or some obnoxious kid fooling around with an air horn. It had been going on for several minutes now. Long honks, short honks, long honks again, on and on. Irritating, and irritatingly familiar, like something she was supposed to remember but couldn’t. Almost like a code, she thought. Almost like . . .
“Morse code!” Kate said aloud, sitting bolt upright in bed.
A long honk, a short honk, a long one again, a pause. That would be a K. She listened intently. Here came some more. Oh, why hadn’t she been studying her Morse code? Flying to her desk, Kate wrote the code down as it came. Short, long. Long, short. Long, short, short. A pause. That spelled and, she was fairly sure. Long, short, long, short — a C. K and C.