The shift from five crushing deep-sea pressure of Hadal salt water to the dry inside of the black glass diving bell was like being pulled out of an iron forge and laid upon a bed of dry cedar shavings.
They had crossed the three hundred paces of flooded coarse grey rock floor in silence, their lead-weighted boots dragging through the golden silt of the twelve cycles. At the bottom of the faceted black glass bell, the circular hatchway had stood open, welcoming them into the lower flood-skirt. Together, they had climbed the bronze rung-ladder into the upper pressure chamber, dogged down the five-inch granite plug with the three-spoke wheel. Then they opened the tightly packed-air purge valves.
With a thunderous, high-pressure roar that shook the faceted quartz panes in their bronze rabbets, sixty cubic deep-water lengths of tightly packed air had forced the black Hadal salt water down through the bottom deck drains. That left the chamber floor dry, slick with green algae, and smelled of damp wool, warm sheep fat, and burnt sulfur.
Qiao Ming reached up with both gauntlets, unscrewed the neck-ring locking dog, and twisted his bronze helmet ninety degrees to the left.
Hiss-clack.
The rubber seal ring broke with a wet pop. He lifted the twenty-pound bronze dome from his shoulders, setting it upon the wooden bench beside him.
