The Gray House

Sphinx itches to give him Jackal-like advice. To live holding his breath. To sing noiseless songs. To wash his face with softer water. But Black is a Leader, and this is not the kind of tone to assume with Leaders.

“Tell them that the bus is useless without a driver, and a driver is useless without a license. This they have to understand. It’s common knowledge.”

Black shakes his head and sighs again. Takes off the bandana, scratches his head. His unhurried movements make Sphinx break out in an itch between his shoulder blades.

“Remember how I said I learned to drive? I mean, not that I’m an expert, but I’m pretty decent. And now I have the license too. Fake, of course. Rat got it for me. But the point is, I have it.”

“Black?” Sphinx says, looking into his eyes. “You’ve already decided, haven’t you? What else do you need? Everything’s in place, all that remains is to load whoever takes you up on the offer in that bus and drive into the sunset. What is it you want from me?”

Black shuffles his feet. Wipes the face with the scrunched-up bandana and says without lifting his eyes, “Nothing. I just had to tell you. That there’s another way, you know. In case any of you guys would like to use it. I’ve already talked to Lary, he and Needle are definitely going. But maybe someone else?”

Sphinx looks at Black and thinks that this man in front of him is undoubtedly the same old Black that he’s known for years, and at the same time someone completely different. That his Leadership has pushed him to the edge of inspired madness, beyond which even familiar people turn into strangers. He considers whether that’s good or bad, and cannot decide definitively. It’s probably bad for Black himself, but Sphinx likes this new unpredictable stranger much more.

“Thanks, Black,” he says.

Black shrugs.

“Not at all. I just wanted you to know. OK . . . I’ll see you.”

Black walks away in his swaying, bearlike gait. Clutching the bandana with the skeletons in his hand, wearing a quietly heroic expression. As Sphinx looks at Black’s receding back, Noble drives up to him.

“What was it he wanted?”

“You know what,” Sphinx says, ignoring the question, “I seem to be acquiring a philosophical attitude.”

The search is apparently over. Counselors and Shark mill around the entrance to the canteen, arguing hotly. They come to some sort of agreement, haul Pheasants’ table to the door, barring it, and Shark announces that since many of the things known missing haven’t been discovered, the backpacks of everyone currently in the canteen will have to be searched as well. No one can hear anything after that. Shark’s speech is drowned out by indignant howls and whistles. Even Pheasants join in, discipline be damned. Shark makes a couple of futile attempts to finish his thought, then shrugs and goes back to the counselors. They are huddled together at the table, waiting for the outrage to subside, but if anything, it keeps growing. Rats start throwing crockery. Plates and cups explode on the floor a couple of feet from the counselors, so it can be argued that Rats aren’t aiming directly at them, but it still looks threatening, and Sheriff’s nerves are the first to snap. He snatches the starter pistol from his pocket and empties the clip at the ceiling. He fires until everyone’s ears start ringing.

Rats pipe down a little, especially since they ran out of things to throw. Pheasants, tableless, decide they’ve had enough and line up for the inspection, backpacks open and ready.

Smoker whips out the notebook again and feverishly scribbles in it like an obsessed reporter who suddenly stumbled upon a sensational scoop. Nanette, shaken by the gunshots, flutters away, but not before decorating the tablecloth with greenish squiggles of guano.

“They are especially vicious today, aren’t they,” Noble says. “I wonder what it is they’re missing, apart from all the things we know about?”

Sphinx looks at Tabaqui, who has been saying the same thing, but he is half-stunned with his own screams and neither hears Noble nor notices Sphinx’s look.

One after the other, Pheasants’ backpacks spill their frighteningly uniform contents on the table before the counselors. Packs of tissues, first-aid kits, daily organizers. Every backpack is then turned inside out and shaken repeatedly. The pockets are turned out separately, yielding only handkerchiefs and combs, neatly numbered.

“The way this is going, might as well settle in for the night,” Noble says. “Not that I relish the opportunity. How about letting Tabaqui go first? He’s got that evil backpack.”

“Don’t do that. That’ll just make them mad,” Humpback says.