The roar outside the steel hull was not the sound of water.
It was the sound of a mountain being ground into powder against an iron plate.
Inside The Nautilus, gravity had ceased to have any polite meaning.
The hundred-ton caisson swung through forty degrees of arc, throwing Foreman Corbin Cross against the padded bench with a breathless thud.
Cans of lithium hydroxide granules broke from their floor brackets, clattering against the steel frames. Meanwhile, the green dials of the instrument panel flickered wildly.
“We’re tipping!” Corbin yelled, his hands clawing for the handrails.
“The sea has turned to stone! The cable’s going to snap!”
Giles Croft was already wedged into the command seat. His boots were locked behind the steering support post.
