High-functioning TKs seemed to get along relatively well in society, but similarly high-functioning TPs had problems, and often turned to booze or drugs. They damped the torrent of input, Stackhouse supposed. “But she’s worth it. Not up there with the Dixon boy—he’s a powerhouse—but close. So tell me what’s concerning you, and let me go about my business.”
“Not a concern, just a heads-up. And don’t hover behind me, it gives me the willies. Drag up a rock.”
While he got the visitor’s chair from the other side of her desk, Mrs. Sigsby opened a video file on her desktop and started it playing. It showed the snack machines outside the cafeteria. The picture was cloudy, it jittered every ten seconds or so, and was occasionally interrupted by static frizz. Mrs. Sigsby paused it during one of these.
“The first thing I want you to notice,” she said, using the dry lecture-hall voice he had so come to dislike, “is the quality of this video. It’s totally unacceptable. The same is true of at least half the surveillance cams. The one in that shitty little convenience store in the Bend is better than most of ours.” Meaning Dennison River Bend, and it was true.
“I’ll pass that on, but we both know the basic infrastructure of this place is shit. The last total renovation was forty years ago, when things in this country were different. A lot looser. As it stands, we have just two IT guys, and one of them is currently on leave. The computer equipment is outdated, and so are the generators. You know all this.”
Mrs. Sigsby absolutely did. It wasn’t lack of funds; it was their inability to bring in outside help. Your basic catch-22, in other words. The Institute had to stay airtight, and in the age of social media and hackers, that became ever more difficult. Even a whisper of what they were up to out here would be the kiss of death. For the vitally important work they did, yes, but also for the staff. It made hiring hard, it made resupply hard, and repairs were a nightmare.
“That fritzing is coming from kitchen equipment,” he said. “Mixers, garbage disposals, the microwaves. I might be able to get something done about that.”
“Perhaps you can even get something done about the bulbs in which the cameras are enclosed. Something low-tech. I believe it’s called ‘dusting.’ We do have janitors.”
Stackhouse looked at his watch.
“All right, Trevor. I can take a hint.” She started the video again. Maureen Alvorson appeared with her cleaning basket. She was accompanied by two residents: Luke Ellis and Avery Dixon, the exceptional TP-pos who was now bunking in with Ellis most nights. The video might have been substandard, but the audio was good.
“We can talk here,” Maureen told the boys. “There’s a mic, but it hasn’t worked for years. Just smile a lot, so if anyone looks at the video, they think you’re buttering me up for tokens. Now what’s on your minds? And keep it short.”
There was a pause. The little boy scratched at his arms, pinched his nostrils, then looked at Luke. So Dixon was only along for the ride. This was Ellis’s deal. Stackhouse wasn’t surprised; Ellis was the smart one. The chess player.
“Well,” Luke said, “it’s about what happened in the cafeteria. To Harry and the little Gs. That’s what’s on our minds.”
Maureen sighed and put down her basket. “I heard about it. It was too bad, but from what I hear, they’re okay.”
“Really? All three of them?”
Maureen paused. Avery was staring up at her anxiously, scratching his arms, pinching his nose, and generally looking like he needed to pee. She said finally, “Maybe not okay right now, at least not completely, I heard Dr. Evans say they were taken to the infirmary in Back Half. They have a fine one there.”
“What else do they have—”
“Quiet.” She raised a hand to Luke and looked around. The picture fritzed, but the sound stayed clear. “Don’t you ask me about Back Half. I can’t talk about that, except to say it’s nice, nicer than Front Half, and after the boys and girls spend some time there, they go back home.”
She had her arms around them when the video cleared. Holding them close. “Look at that,” Stackhouse said admiringly. “Mother Courage. She’s good.”
“Hush,” Mrs. Sigsby said.
Luke asked Maureen if she was absolutely sure Harry and Greta were alive. “Because they looked . . . well . . . dead.”