Acceptance(87)

So he gives you the not-so-grand tour, through this miniaturized world of ever-decreasing wonder. There’s the strange kitschy quality of piped-in music through speakers hidden around the grounds. A distant but cheery tune—not pop, not jazz, not classical, but something all the more menacing for being jaunty.

At the top of the quaint little lighthouse—what would Saul think of it?—he points out that the daymark is accurate, as well as “the fucking glass shards somebody added later.” When he pulls the trapdoor open at the top, what’s revealed in the room below are piles and piles of empty journals and loose, blank pages, as if he’s bought a stationery store as a side business. The lens isn’t functional, either, but as if by way of apology, you get a history lesson: “Back in the day—way back in the day—they used to just shove a big fucking fatty bird onto a stake and light it on fire for a beacon.”

That “goddamn hole in the ground,” as Lowry puts it, is the least accurate part—an old gunnery position with the gun unit ripped out, leaving the granite-lined dark circle that leads down a ladder to a tunnel that then doubles back to the hill behind you that houses most of Lowry’s installations. You climb down only a little ways, enough to see, framed on the dank walls, Lowry’s art gallery: the blurry, out-of-focus photographs, blown up, brought back by various expeditions. A kind of meta version of the tunnel brought to the faux tunnel, displaying with confidence something unknowable. Thinking of Saul on the steps of the real tunnel, turning toward you, and feeling such an acute contempt for Lowry that you have to remain there, looking down, for long moments, afraid it will show on your face.

After you’ve made the right noises about how impressive it all is, you suggest continuing along the shore, “fresh air and nature,” and Lowry acquiesces, defeated by your tactic of asking a question about each new thing ahead because he just cannot shut up about his own cleverness. You take a side path that leads north along the water. There are geese nesting on a nearby rocky point that give you both the stink eye, an otter in the sea in the middle distance, shadowing you.

Eventually, you turn the conversation to the S&SB. You pull out a piece of paper—the line item linked to “Jack Severance.” You point it out to him even though it’s highlighted in hot pink. You present it as this funny thing, this thing Lowry must have known about, too. Given his secret debriefing of your childhood experiences when you first joined the Southern Reach.

“Is that the reason you and Jackie are working together?” you ask. “That the S&SB had a link to Central—through Jack?”

Lowry considers that question, a kind of smirk on his craggy face. A smirk, and a look down at the ground and back up at you.

“Is that all we’re out here for? For that? Jesus, I might’ve given you that in a fucking phone call.”

“Not much, I guess,” you say. Sheepish smile, offered up to a raging wolf of a narcissist. “But I’d like to know.” Before you cross the border.

A hesitation, a sideways glance that’s appraising you hard for some hidden motivation or some next move that maybe he can’t see.

Prodding: “A side project? The S&SB a side project of Central, or…?”

“Sure, why not,” Lowry says, relaxing. “The usual kind of dependent clause that could be excised at any time, no harm done.”

But sometimes the ancillary infected the primary. Sometimes the host and the parasite got confused about their roles, as the biologist might have put it.

“It’s how you got the photograph of me at the lighthouse.” Not a question.

“Very good!” he says, genuinely delighted. “Too fucking true! I was on a mission to find evidence to make sure you stayed true … and then I wondered how come that was in Central’s files in the first place, and not over at the Southern Reach. Wondered where it originated—and then I found that very same line item.” Except Lowry had a higher security clearance, could access information you and Grace couldn’t get your hands on.

“That was smart of you. Really smart.”

Lowry puffs up, chest sticking out, aware he’s being flattered but can’t help the self-parody that’s not really parody at all, because where’s the harm? You’re on the way out. He’s probably already thinking about replacements. You haven’t bothered putting Grace’s name forward, have been working on Jackie Severance in that regard instead.

“The idea was straightforward, the way Jack told it. The S&SB was kind of bat-shit crazy, low probability, but if there actually was anything uncanny or alien in the world, we should monitor it, should be aware of it. Maybe influence or nudge it a bit, provide the right materials and guidance. And if troublemakers or undesirables joined the group—that’s a good way to monitor potential subversives, too … and also a good cover for getting into places ‘hidden in plain sight’ for surveillance, a methodology Central was keen on back then. A lot of antigovernment types along the forgotten coast.”