The sound that came through the surface hydrophone speaker was not the noble voice of a royal pioneer exploring the sunken monuments of antiquity.
It sounded like a furious marsh-drake squawking over a sack of dry grain.
Quack-squeak-quack-whistle-quack.
Giles Croft stood on the deck of the salvage platform Imperial Pride. He held the brass telephone handset six inches from his ear to protect his eardrum from the piercing treble frequencies.
“Corbin,” Giles said into the speaking cup, his voice dry and level.
“Slow down your speech by half. And speak in your lowest chest register.
The sound speed in eighty percent helium is nearly three times faster than in sky air.
Your vocal cord ringing tones are shifted two octaves into the upper register.”
