be watching from behind the one-way glass. Stealing
a trick he’d learned from a colleague who had done it to him at his last job, Control
had given Grace an afternoon time for the session. Then he had walked down to the
expedition holding area, spoken to the security guard, and had the biologist brought
to the debriefing room.
As he dove in, without preamble this time, Control ignored the water stains on the
ceiling that resembled variously an ear and a giant subaqueous eye staring down.
“There’s a topographical anomaly in Area X, fairly near base camp. Did you or any
members of your expedition find this topographical anomaly? If so, did you go inside?”
In actual fact, most of those who encountered it called it a tower or a tunnel or
even a pit, but he stuck with “topographical anomaly” in hopes she would give it a
more specific name on her own.
“I don’t remember.”
Her constant use of those words had begun to grate, or perhaps it was the words on
the wall that grated, and the consistency of her stance was just pushing that irritation
forward.
“Are you sure?” Of course she was sure.
“I think I would remember forgetting that.”
When Control met her gaze now, it was always to the slightly upraised corners of her
mouth, eyes that had a light in them so different from the last session. For reasons
he couldn’t fathom, that frustrated him. This was not the same person. Was it?
“This isn’t a joke,” he said, deciding to see how she would react if he seemed irritated.
Except he really was irritated.
“I do not remember. What else can I say?” Each word said as if he were a bit slow
and hadn’t understood her the first time.
A vision of his couch in his new home, of Chorry curled up on his lap, of music playing,
of a book in hand. A better place than here.
“That you do remember. That you are holding something back.” Pushing. Some people
wanted to please their questioners. Others didn’t care or deliberately wanted to obstruct.
The thought had occurred, from the first session and the transcripts of three other
sessions before he’d arrived, that the biologist might float back and forth between
these extremes, not know her own mind or be severely conflicted. What could he do
to convince her? A potted mouse had not moved her. A change of topic hadn’t, either.
The biologist said nothing.
“Improbable,” he said, as if she had denied it again. “So many other expeditions have
encountered this topographical anomaly.” A mouthful, topographical anomaly.
“Even so,” she said, “I don’t remember a tower.”
Tower. Not tunnel or pit or cave or hole in the ground.
“Why do you call it a tower?” he asked, pouncing. Too eager, he realized a moment
later.
A grin appeared on Ghost Bird’s face, and a kind of remote affection. For him? Because
of some thought that his words had triggered?
“Did you know,” she replied, “that the phorus snail attaches the empty shells of other
snails onto its own shell. As a result, the saltwater phorus snail is very clumsy.
It staggers and tumbles about because of these empty shells, which offer camouflage,
but at a price.”
The deep well of secret mirth behind the answer stung him.
* * *
Perhaps, too, he had wanted her to share his disdain for the term topographical anomaly . It had come up during his initial briefing with Grace and other members of the staff.
As some “topographical anomaly” expert had droned on about its non-aspects, basically
creating an outline for what they didn’t know, Control had felt a heat rising. A whole
monologue rising with it. Channeling Grandpa Jack, who could work himself into a mighty
rage when he wanted to, especially when confronted by the stupidities of the world.
His grandpa would have stood and said something like, “Topological anomaly? Topological
anomaly? Don’t you mean witchcraft ? Don’t you mean the end of
a trick he’d learned from a colleague who had done it to him at his last job, Control
had given Grace an afternoon time for the session. Then he had walked down to the
expedition holding area, spoken to the security guard, and had the biologist brought
to the debriefing room.
As he dove in, without preamble this time, Control ignored the water stains on the
ceiling that resembled variously an ear and a giant subaqueous eye staring down.
“There’s a topographical anomaly in Area X, fairly near base camp. Did you or any
members of your expedition find this topographical anomaly? If so, did you go inside?”
In actual fact, most of those who encountered it called it a tower or a tunnel or
even a pit, but he stuck with “topographical anomaly” in hopes she would give it a
more specific name on her own.
“I don’t remember.”
Her constant use of those words had begun to grate, or perhaps it was the words on
the wall that grated, and the consistency of her stance was just pushing that irritation
forward.
“Are you sure?” Of course she was sure.
“I think I would remember forgetting that.”
When Control met her gaze now, it was always to the slightly upraised corners of her
mouth, eyes that had a light in them so different from the last session. For reasons
he couldn’t fathom, that frustrated him. This was not the same person. Was it?
“This isn’t a joke,” he said, deciding to see how she would react if he seemed irritated.
Except he really was irritated.
“I do not remember. What else can I say?” Each word said as if he were a bit slow
and hadn’t understood her the first time.
A vision of his couch in his new home, of Chorry curled up on his lap, of music playing,
of a book in hand. A better place than here.
“That you do remember. That you are holding something back.” Pushing. Some people
wanted to please their questioners. Others didn’t care or deliberately wanted to obstruct.
The thought had occurred, from the first session and the transcripts of three other
sessions before he’d arrived, that the biologist might float back and forth between
these extremes, not know her own mind or be severely conflicted. What could he do
to convince her? A potted mouse had not moved her. A change of topic hadn’t, either.
The biologist said nothing.
“Improbable,” he said, as if she had denied it again. “So many other expeditions have
encountered this topographical anomaly.” A mouthful, topographical anomaly.
“Even so,” she said, “I don’t remember a tower.”
Tower. Not tunnel or pit or cave or hole in the ground.
“Why do you call it a tower?” he asked, pouncing. Too eager, he realized a moment
later.
A grin appeared on Ghost Bird’s face, and a kind of remote affection. For him? Because
of some thought that his words had triggered?
“Did you know,” she replied, “that the phorus snail attaches the empty shells of other
snails onto its own shell. As a result, the saltwater phorus snail is very clumsy.
It staggers and tumbles about because of these empty shells, which offer camouflage,
but at a price.”
The deep well of secret mirth behind the answer stung him.
* * *
Perhaps, too, he had wanted her to share his disdain for the term topographical anomaly . It had come up during his initial briefing with Grace and other members of the staff.
As some “topographical anomaly” expert had droned on about its non-aspects, basically
creating an outline for what they didn’t know, Control had felt a heat rising. A whole
monologue rising with it. Channeling Grandpa Jack, who could work himself into a mighty
rage when he wanted to, especially when confronted by the stupidities of the world.
His grandpa would have stood and said something like, “Topological anomaly? Topological
anomaly? Don’t you mean witchcraft ? Don’t you mean the end of
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