The Prisoner's Dilemma (13 page)

“Not exactly,” said Mr. Benedict in a reassuring tone. “It’s true you will hear the voice of the Whisperer in your mind, and the voice will not seem like
my
voice. The Whisperer sounds different to different people; it’s a matter of mental interpretation. Regardless, it will ask you the questions I tell it to ask. As you know, the machine identifies memories that the operator—
I
am the operator now, my dear—believes to exist. Under my brother’s control the Whisperer would bury those memories, but under mine it only retrieves what has been hidden. A simple process, really, not unlike turning on a lamp in a dark room.”

“Wonderful,” said Constance, a bit snappishly. She was anxious to begin, anxious to get this over with. “Let’s go turn on that lamp.”

Mr. Benedict agreed, and everyone stood. The older children, feeling an urge to wish Constance good luck—as if she were going on a long journey—took turns shaking her hand. Number Two gave her a stiff hug (which Constance stiffly tolerated), and Rhonda, with an arm across the little girl’s shoulders, led her over to the guest chair. Then Rhonda joined the others, now sitting quietly out of the way.

Mr. Benedict took a long look at Constance perched in the overstuffed chair with her legs dangling and her arms crossed. Such a long look, in fact, that Constance frowned and demanded to know what he was doing.

“Fixing your image in my mind,” said Mr. Benedict without averting his gaze. “It is a means of concentrating my focus.” After a pause he said, “I realize that, my dear, but I’m afraid it’s a necessary step.”

The other children sneaked looks at one another. It was not lost on them that Constance’s complaint—whatever it was—had not been spoken aloud.

Presently Mr. Benedict nodded, smiled at Constance reassuringly, and turned away.

Constance took a last nervous glance at her friends. “Here’s hoping I don’t come out of this as dopey as old S.Q.!”

Mr. Benedict paused and looked back. “Why do you say that?”

Constance shrugged. “I was just thinking about how addlepated I might be. So naturally I thought of S.Q.”

“Naturally,” said Mr. Benedict with a curious glimmer in his eye—but that glimmer, which Reynie did not fail to notice, might as well as have been a spotlight, for he suddenly saw with perfect clarity why S.Q. Pedalian was the way he was. Mr. Benedict knew the reason and no doubt had been thinking about it, and Constance had unwittingly picked up on his thoughts.

The revelation sent Reynie’s mind racing after answers to new questions—questions he wanted to ask Mr. Benedict, but of course the timing could not have been worse. Already Mr. Benedict was ducking behind the decorative screen, and Constance was bracing herself for a long-awaited and now half-dreaded moment. Reynie’s questions would have to wait.

In the heavy silence they heard Mr. Benedict climb into the Whisperer’s seat, fit the helmet over his head, and take a slow, deep breath. Then he spoke his name quietly aloud. Instantly a faint humming sound began, barely detectable even in the still room, and all eyes turned toward the little girl in the big chair.

At the moment, that little girl was feeling extremely uncomfortable. Though her friends were here with her, they were huddled off to the side, and when Mr. Benedict had disappeared behind the screen Constance felt suddenly very lonely and exposed. It was rather like having your teeth X-rayed in a dentist’s chair, when for a few moments you are left alone in the empty room, but those few moments seem much longer. And then, with a start, Constance heard the Whisperer speak inside her mind, and she abruptly lost awareness of anything else.

What is your name?
the strange, toneless voice asked.

Constance took a breath and tried to relax, tried to remember it was Mr. Benedict behind the voice. She reminded herself that she wanted to be here, that she wanted answers. And so, slowly at first but then all in a rush, Constance opened her mind to the Whisperer’s questions.

They began simply enough:
What is your name? Where are you now? What color are your eyes?
Constance’s mind produced the answers effortlessly, without conscious thought.

Where had you been before you went to live in the Brookville library?

Constance stiffened, concentrated, repeated the question to herself. She imagined herself in that library, where she had secretly lived for months. Reading the newspapers every day. Searching for something. But what? And what had she been doing before? No answer came.

How do you know your age?

Again Constance was stumped. How did she know? She thought for some time but came up with nothing.

More questions followed:
What did you have in your hand when you went to the library? Did you walk to the library? Did you take a bus to the library? What was in your pockets?
Constance pondered all these questions and more; she concentrated as hard as she ever had; but every time her mind came up blank. Frustrated, she spluttered aloud.

There was a long pause, so long that Constance began to wonder if Mr. Benedict had given up. But finally the next question came:
What frightening thing happened the day you went to the library?

And then, somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind, an image flickered.

Constance sucked in her breath. She clutched the arms of the chair. It had been only a flicker, but the Whisperer was racing toward it with alarming intensity and force. That was the sensation she had—the flickering image like a target in the darkness, the Whisperer hurtling toward it like an arrow, and Constance herself borne along in the great hurtling rush. Closer and closer she flew until she was shooting straight into the image—it was a folder, nothing more—and then flying through it as if through a bright window and out at last into daylight, where she saw everything clearly, saw where she was coming from, saw where she was going, and saw who it was she was trying to escape.

H
ello, ducky,” said the man in the suit.

His smile was bright and even, and when he leaned over the safety gate that confined Constance to the playroom, a strong, pleasant fragrance wafted over her. And yet her skin prickled in warning. She took a step back, tightening her pudgy hands into fists.

“What are you doing?” said a woman’s voice. Myrtle. Her name was Myrtle.

“I was about to pat the dear on the head.”

“Oh! I wouldn’t do that! She’s prone to bite strangers who reach for her.”

The man straightened and turned to the woman. “A reasonable practice.”

“And she won’t do anything you ask,” said Myrtle. “I mean she
can
do it, but she won’t if you ask her to.”

“Of course,” said the man, taking Myrtle by the elbow and leading her several paces down the hall.

They spoke in low tones, but Constance could hear them if she strained her ears. The man was asking politely about the other children that lived here, their ages and what sort of outing they were on, and saying nice things about Myrtle’s house, which Constance could tell he did not mean. And there was another person with them in the hall, although he had not spoken a word.

Padding softly over to the playroom bookshelf (she wore her thickest, warmest socks today), Constance began choosing books. She drew out the largest ones she could lift, holding them to her chest like prized possessions, knowing from experience not to trust her clumsy fingers. Fairy tale collections, picture dictionaries, half-destroyed pop-up books, volumes of a children’s encyclopedia. One by one she carried them away from the shelf, staggering slightly under their weight, and began to stack them.

“Pardon me for confirming certain details,” the man was saying now. His tone, though still friendly, had grown more businesslike. “Can she truly read, or does she simply give that impression? Is it possible, for instance, that she’s citing familiar passages from memory?”

“Not only can she read,” said Myrtle, “she can
write.
Of course it’s hard to make out her handwriting, but—”

A pen clicked. “May I ask what sort of things she writes?”

“Complaints, mostly, though she also likes to make lists of rhyming words. And some things she tears up before anyone can read them. She’s a private child and likes to be left alone. She seldom speaks.”

“Was she very much traumatized by her parents’ death?”

“Goodness, no! She was only a few weeks old. Train crash, you know. She had no other family, and the orphanage nursery was full, so we were contracted to take her on… but that’s all in the files, of course.” There was a ruffling of papers, and Myrtle said quickly, “I hope we don’t seem uncharitable! It’s just that the money’s less than we might have thought, especially considering how much more difficult than the other children…”

“I’m sure,” the man said mildly. “Your troubles are at an end, however. Our employer is interested in gifted children of all ages. If you have the papers…”

“They’re all in the folder. Birth records, health records—everything you said. But is it true you—forgive me, I don’t mean to offend, but were the other records really… destroyed?”

Constance paused in her stacking to be sure she heard the reply. Her heart hammered so loudly in her ears, she feared she would miss it.

“I gather you spoke with my associate, Mr. Crawlings. He often misspeaks, madam.” A laugh. “No, I assure you, her records were not destroyed, only transferred to a more appropriate agency.”

“Well, that’s certainly… Still, can’t you say more about what’s to be done with her there? It’s very irregular, after all, and though she’s a troublesome child we do want the best for her.”

“Madam, surely you are aware of our employer’s vaunted reputation.”

“Of course! And the Institute is famous! I just… it
is
peculiar, you know, with the arrangement being kept off the books…”

The man chuckled. “That’s merely a matter of simplifying an over-complicated bureaucratic process. You know how it is, with the Emergency at such a pitch…”

“Oh yes, it’s terrible!”

There was an uncomfortably long pause. Constance, alone in the playroom, could sense the tension without seeing the adults’ faces. Indeed, she felt it in her own face, now quite rosy with heat. Shaking her head as if freeing herself from a spell, she returned to the shelf for the last volume of the encyclopedia.

“Madam, I hate to press you, but did you not already make your decision? As you were told before, our employer will take excellent care of the girl, will nourish her gifts and help her reach her fullest potential—and, as you know, will pay you handsomely for the opportunity. However, we dare not even mention the child to him if we cannot deliver her. Mr. Curtain is much too busy a man to be bothered with needless distractions, to say nothing of disappointments.”

“Oh, I am sure, I am sure! Please, if you will just… allow me one minute to speak with… I’ll be right back!”

Constance heard Myrtle hastening away to the den. And then for the first time she heard the other man’s voice, speaking in a hush. “Tell me again why we don’t just take her?”

The first man grunted. “McCracken says this is the preferred approach—much simpler, much easier, and far less risky. We
will
take her, of course, if these ninnies suddenly recover their scruples. But they need the money, and I’m confident—ah, here she comes. Yes, madam, have you decided?”

“My associate wonders if you might just show him what you showed me.”

“You’ve pointed at the wrong briefcase, madam, but I assume you mean the money. That would be in
this
briefcase. And certainly we’ll show it to him. Be so good as to lead the way.”

The men followed Myrtle away down the hall just as Constance stacked the last book. Panting from her exertions, she moved back to inspect her work. Her fingers could not manipulate the safety gate’s complicated spring latch (she had tried many times before), nor was she strong enough to haul herself over it—and so she had constructed stairs. The bottom step was two books; the second one was four; and so it went with the rest of the steps, which led right to the top of the gate.

Scattered about the playroom were dozens of stuffed animals, and Constance gathered these as quickly as she could, lifting them in bunches over the gate and dropping them onto the carpet beyond. When she had built a considerable pile, she walked up the book steps—taking great care not to lose her balance—and jumped over the gate. She fell into the pile of stuffed animals with scarcely a thump.

From the hall closet she took out boots, a sweater, and a red raincoat, all of which quite swallowed her—everything she’d been given to wear was too large—and carrying these in an awkward bundle she crept down the hallway toward the front door. She took a deep breath before shuffling past the den, where a falsely cheerful conversation was taking place beyond the half-open door. No one observed her.

In the entryway stood a low desk, and on the desk was a folder. Constance hesitated, looking back toward the den. Should she risk the delay? Then she remembered Myrtle’s change purse in the bureau drawer. That settled it. She put down her bundle, eased the drawer open, and took out enough coins for bus fare, leaving the rest. Then she opened the front door (she needed both hands to turn the knob), tucked the folder into her shirt, gathered up her bundle again, and went out into the cold.

She had never dressed so quickly. Standing at the bottom of the steps she struggled into her sweater, fairly leaped into her boots, threw on the raincoat. Thus attired she marched awkwardly to the corner bus stop, squinting against snowflakes that had just begun to fall. She would have preferred a bus stop farther away from the house, but she had no idea where one might be. On previous outings they always had caught the bus here.

A tiny old woman stood at the bus stop, leaning on a cane. Small though she was, she towered over Constance. She wore red-framed spectacles as big as saucers. Constance asked her when the bus was expected. The woman peered down through her huge glasses, blinking. Constance repeated her question more loudly.