The bathyscaphe Nautilus-IV rose steadily through the silent, graduated strata of the North Atlantic Ocean.
Through the forward quartz viewports, Arthur Vance watched the deep-sea deep pit slowly surrender to the light. At three thousand meters depth, the ink-black water began to soften into deep indigo. Drifting chains of living-glow deep-sea jellies and semi-clear deep-sea medusae flickered past the thick glass like falling stars. At one thousand meters, passing through the mesopelagic boundary, the first pale, heavenly rays of daylight filtered down through the crystal sea. A breathtaking azure light that washed away the oppressive gloom of the sunken cathedral.
Inside the cabin, the heavy sky depressurization cycle completed with a gentle chime.
“Main ballast tanks emptying,” Valerie announced from the pilot’s station, her voice lighter than it had been in months. “Depth: fifty meters... Thirty... Ten... Surface breach in three, two, one!”
SHROOOOM!
The Nautilus-IV broke through the surface of the Atlantic, parting the ocean waves with a bone-shaking roar of displaced foam and tightly packed air.
Sunlight—warm, brilliant, unclouded midday sunlight—poured through the upper watching domes, blinding in its intensity. Arthur cracked open the submarine’s top conning hatch, stepping out onto the narrow outside bridge.
He drew in a deep draught of air.
