it’s often fascinating, and definitely challenging.” Whitby
was sweating now, beads breaking on his forehead.
It might indeed be fascinating, but Whitby had, according to the records, undergone
a sustained spasm of transfer requests about three years ago—one every month and then
every two months like an intermittent SOS, until it had trailed off to nothing, like
a flatlined EKG. Control approved of the initiative, if not the sense of desperation
embedded in the number of attempts. Whitby didn’t want to be stuck in a backwater
and just as clearly the director or someone hadn’t wanted him to leave.
Perhaps it was his utility-player versatility, because it was clear to Control that,
just like every department in the Southern Reach, the science division had been “stripped
for parts,” as his mother would have put it, by antiterrorism and Central. According
to the personnel records, there had once been one hundred and fifteen scientists in-house,
representing almost thirty disciplines and several subdepartments. Now there were
only sixty-five people in the whole haunted place. There had even been talk, Control
knew, about relocating, except that the building was too close to the border to be
used for anything else.
The same cheap, rotting scent came to him again just then, as if the janitor had unlimited
access to the entire building.
“Isn’t that cleaning smell a bit strong?”
“The smell?” Whitby’s head whipped around, eyes made huge by the circles around them.
“The rancid honey smell.”
“I don’t smell anything.”
Control frowned, more at Whitby’s vehemence than anything else. Well, of course. They
were used to it. Tiniest of his tasks, but he made a note to authorize changing cleaning
supplies to something organic.
When they curved down at an angle that seemed unnecessarily precipitous, into a spacious
preamble to the science division, the ceiling seeming higher than ever, Control was
surprised. A tall metal wall greeted them, and a small door within it with a sophisticated
security system blinking red.
Except the door was open.
“Is this door always open, Whitby?” he asked.
Whitby seemed to believe hazarding a guess might be perilous, and hesitated before
saying, “This used to be the back end of the facilities—they only added a door a year
or two ago.”
Which made Control wonder what this space had been used for back then. Dance hall?
Weddings and bar mitzvahs? Impromptu court-martials?
They both had to stoop to enter, only to be greeted by two space-program-quality air
locks, no doubt to protect against contamination. The portal doors had been cantilevered
open and from within glowed an intense white light that, for whatever reason, refused
to peek out beyond the unsecured security door.
Along the walls, at shoulder height, both rooms were lined with flaccid long black
gloves that hung in a way that Control could only think of as dejected. There was
a sense that it had been a long time since they had been brought to life by hands
and arms. It was a kind of mausoleum, entombing curiosity and due diligence.
“What are those for, Whitby? To creep out guests?”
“Oh, we haven’t used those for ages. I don’t know why they’ve left them in here.”
It didn’t really get much better after that.
003: PROCESSING
Later, back in his office, having left Whitby in his world, Control made one more
sweep for bugs. Then he prepared to call the Voice, who required reports at regular
intervals. He had been given a separate cell phone for this purpose, just to make
his satchel bulkier. The dozen times he’d talked to the Voice at Central prior to
coming to the Southern Reach, s/he could have been somewhere nearby. S/he could have
been observing him through hidden cameras the whole time. Or been a thousand miles
away, a remote operative used just to run one agent.
Control didn’t recall much beyond the raw
was sweating now, beads breaking on his forehead.
It might indeed be fascinating, but Whitby had, according to the records, undergone
a sustained spasm of transfer requests about three years ago—one every month and then
every two months like an intermittent SOS, until it had trailed off to nothing, like
a flatlined EKG. Control approved of the initiative, if not the sense of desperation
embedded in the number of attempts. Whitby didn’t want to be stuck in a backwater
and just as clearly the director or someone hadn’t wanted him to leave.
Perhaps it was his utility-player versatility, because it was clear to Control that,
just like every department in the Southern Reach, the science division had been “stripped
for parts,” as his mother would have put it, by antiterrorism and Central. According
to the personnel records, there had once been one hundred and fifteen scientists in-house,
representing almost thirty disciplines and several subdepartments. Now there were
only sixty-five people in the whole haunted place. There had even been talk, Control
knew, about relocating, except that the building was too close to the border to be
used for anything else.
The same cheap, rotting scent came to him again just then, as if the janitor had unlimited
access to the entire building.
“Isn’t that cleaning smell a bit strong?”
“The smell?” Whitby’s head whipped around, eyes made huge by the circles around them.
“The rancid honey smell.”
“I don’t smell anything.”
Control frowned, more at Whitby’s vehemence than anything else. Well, of course. They
were used to it. Tiniest of his tasks, but he made a note to authorize changing cleaning
supplies to something organic.
When they curved down at an angle that seemed unnecessarily precipitous, into a spacious
preamble to the science division, the ceiling seeming higher than ever, Control was
surprised. A tall metal wall greeted them, and a small door within it with a sophisticated
security system blinking red.
Except the door was open.
“Is this door always open, Whitby?” he asked.
Whitby seemed to believe hazarding a guess might be perilous, and hesitated before
saying, “This used to be the back end of the facilities—they only added a door a year
or two ago.”
Which made Control wonder what this space had been used for back then. Dance hall?
Weddings and bar mitzvahs? Impromptu court-martials?
They both had to stoop to enter, only to be greeted by two space-program-quality air
locks, no doubt to protect against contamination. The portal doors had been cantilevered
open and from within glowed an intense white light that, for whatever reason, refused
to peek out beyond the unsecured security door.
Along the walls, at shoulder height, both rooms were lined with flaccid long black
gloves that hung in a way that Control could only think of as dejected. There was
a sense that it had been a long time since they had been brought to life by hands
and arms. It was a kind of mausoleum, entombing curiosity and due diligence.
“What are those for, Whitby? To creep out guests?”
“Oh, we haven’t used those for ages. I don’t know why they’ve left them in here.”
It didn’t really get much better after that.
003: PROCESSING
Later, back in his office, having left Whitby in his world, Control made one more
sweep for bugs. Then he prepared to call the Voice, who required reports at regular
intervals. He had been given a separate cell phone for this purpose, just to make
his satchel bulkier. The dozen times he’d talked to the Voice at Central prior to
coming to the Southern Reach, s/he could have been somewhere nearby. S/he could have
been observing him through hidden cameras the whole time. Or been a thousand miles
away, a remote operative used just to run one agent.
Control didn’t recall much beyond the raw
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