A master hydrologist does not build a wall against a rising river. He digs a canal to lead the water into his waterwheels.
When the black glass diving bell locked into the bronze docking collar of Entry hall 912, the heavy steel securing dogs engaged with a series of thunderous, metal clangs that rang through the dry staging hall. The lower drainage valves opened, dumping five hundred gallons of leftover salt water into the sump gutters with a foaming hiss, before the main hatchway swung open on its counterweighted brass hinges.
Qiao Ming stepped out of the bell onto the dry granite dock, barefoot, carrying the cedar basket of unknotted horsehair line in his left hand and the Folded brass star-compass in his right.
Behind him, Yan Zhiqiu emerged carrying the Joined Broken Slate in its cedar cradle.
The staging hall of Entry hall 912 was crowded with senior sounders, apprentice masons, and refugee elders from the high roof ledges. More than two hundred people were gathered along the stone galleries, holding their smoking animal fat torches high above their heads. everyone could feel the scent of damp wool, burning mutton fat, and the hot, reassuring aroma of boiled lichen porridge cooking in communal iron cooking pots along the outer edge. They wore clothes patched with dried kelp-cloth and oiled sheepskin, their hollow cheeks marked by long seasons of rationing on the high ledges. Small children, born in the lightless galleries and possessing the large, milky pupils of deep-sea dwellers…
