information from those prior times, but
talking to the Voice made him nervous. He was sweating through his undershirt as he
punched the number, after having first checked the hallway and then locked the door.
Neither his mother nor the Voice had told him what might be expected from any report.
His mother had said that the Voice could remove him from his position without consulting
with her. He doubted that was true but had decided to believe it for now.
The Voice was, as ever, gruff and disguised by a filter. Disguised purely for security
or because Control might recognize it? “You’ll likely never know the identity of the
Voice,” his mother had said. “You need to put that question out of your head. Concentrate
on what’s in front of you. Do what you do best.”
But what was that? And how did it translate into the Voice thinking he had done a
good job? He already imagined the Voice as a megalodon or other leviathan, situated
in a think tank filled with salt water in some black-op basement so secret and labyrinthine
that no one now remembered its purpose even as they continued to reenact its rituals.
A sink tank, really. Or a stink tank. Control doubted the Voice or his mother would
find that worth a chuckle.
The Voice used Control’s real name, which confused him at first, as if he had sunk
so deeply into “Control” that this other name belonged to someone else. He couldn’t
stop tapping his left index finger against the blotter on his desk.
“Report,” the Voice said.
“In what way?” was Control’s immediate and admittedly inane response.
“Words would be nice,” the Voice said, sounding like gravel ground under boots.
Control launched into a summary of his experience so far, which started as just a
summary of the summary he had received on the state of things at the Southern Reach.
But somewhere in the middle he started to lose the thread or momentum—had he already
reported the bugs in his office?—and the Voice interrupted him. “Tell me about the
scientists. Tell me about the science division. You met with them today. What’s the
state of things there?”
Interesting. Did that mean the Voice had another pair of eyes inside the Southern
Reach?
So he told the Voice about the visit to the science division, although couching his
opinions in diplomatic language. If his mother had been debriefing him, Control would
have said the scientists were a mess, even for scientists. The head of the department,
Mike Cheney, was a short, burly, fifty-something white guy in a motorcycle jacket,
T-shirt, and jeans, who had close-cropped silver hair and a booming, jovial voice.
An accent that had originated in the north but at times relaxed into an adopted southern
drawl. The lines to the sides of his mouth conspired with plunging eyebrows to make
of his face an X, a fate he perpetually fought against by being the kind of person
who smiled all the time.
His second-in-command, Deborah Davidson, was also a physicist: A skinny jogger type
who had actually smoked her way to weight loss. She creaked along in a short-sleeved
red plaid shirt and tight brown corduroy pants cinched with a thick, overlarge leather
belt. Most of this hidden by a worn black business jacket whose huge shoulder pads
revealed its age. She had a handshake like a cold, dead fish, from which Control could
not at first extricate himself.
Control’s ability to absorb new names, though, had ended with Davidson. He gave vague
nods to the research chemist, as well as the staff epidemiologist, psychologist, and
anthropologist who had also been stuffed into the tiny conference room for the meeting.
At first Control felt disrespected by that space, but halfway through he realized
he’d gotten it wrong. No, they were like a cat confronted by a predator—just trying
to make themselves look bigger to him, in this case by scaling down their surroundings.
None of the extras
talking to the Voice made him nervous. He was sweating through his undershirt as he
punched the number, after having first checked the hallway and then locked the door.
Neither his mother nor the Voice had told him what might be expected from any report.
His mother had said that the Voice could remove him from his position without consulting
with her. He doubted that was true but had decided to believe it for now.
The Voice was, as ever, gruff and disguised by a filter. Disguised purely for security
or because Control might recognize it? “You’ll likely never know the identity of the
Voice,” his mother had said. “You need to put that question out of your head. Concentrate
on what’s in front of you. Do what you do best.”
But what was that? And how did it translate into the Voice thinking he had done a
good job? He already imagined the Voice as a megalodon or other leviathan, situated
in a think tank filled with salt water in some black-op basement so secret and labyrinthine
that no one now remembered its purpose even as they continued to reenact its rituals.
A sink tank, really. Or a stink tank. Control doubted the Voice or his mother would
find that worth a chuckle.
The Voice used Control’s real name, which confused him at first, as if he had sunk
so deeply into “Control” that this other name belonged to someone else. He couldn’t
stop tapping his left index finger against the blotter on his desk.
“Report,” the Voice said.
“In what way?” was Control’s immediate and admittedly inane response.
“Words would be nice,” the Voice said, sounding like gravel ground under boots.
Control launched into a summary of his experience so far, which started as just a
summary of the summary he had received on the state of things at the Southern Reach.
But somewhere in the middle he started to lose the thread or momentum—had he already
reported the bugs in his office?—and the Voice interrupted him. “Tell me about the
scientists. Tell me about the science division. You met with them today. What’s the
state of things there?”
Interesting. Did that mean the Voice had another pair of eyes inside the Southern
Reach?
So he told the Voice about the visit to the science division, although couching his
opinions in diplomatic language. If his mother had been debriefing him, Control would
have said the scientists were a mess, even for scientists. The head of the department,
Mike Cheney, was a short, burly, fifty-something white guy in a motorcycle jacket,
T-shirt, and jeans, who had close-cropped silver hair and a booming, jovial voice.
An accent that had originated in the north but at times relaxed into an adopted southern
drawl. The lines to the sides of his mouth conspired with plunging eyebrows to make
of his face an X, a fate he perpetually fought against by being the kind of person
who smiled all the time.
His second-in-command, Deborah Davidson, was also a physicist: A skinny jogger type
who had actually smoked her way to weight loss. She creaked along in a short-sleeved
red plaid shirt and tight brown corduroy pants cinched with a thick, overlarge leather
belt. Most of this hidden by a worn black business jacket whose huge shoulder pads
revealed its age. She had a handshake like a cold, dead fish, from which Control could
not at first extricate himself.
Control’s ability to absorb new names, though, had ended with Davidson. He gave vague
nods to the research chemist, as well as the staff epidemiologist, psychologist, and
anthropologist who had also been stuffed into the tiny conference room for the meeting.
At first Control felt disrespected by that space, but halfway through he realized
he’d gotten it wrong. No, they were like a cat confronted by a predator—just trying
to make themselves look bigger to him, in this case by scaling down their surroundings.
None of the extras
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