‘Cross-check internal temperature readings.’
‘Twenty-two degrees Celsius,’ Costas replied.
‘Seems a little hot. Mine’s twenty.’
‘You’re a Viking, remember? I’m Mediterranean. And I’m keeping myself in training for that tropical island you promised.’
Jack glanced down at the clear plastic tube inside his helmet beside his mouth, leading to a freshwater bag inside the rebreather console on his back. ‘Just make sure you keep hydrated,’ he replied. ‘Remember,the more you sweat, the more likely you are to get the bends when we go back up.’
‘My thermostat’s set at twenty-two max. And I have no intention of being a boil-in-the-bag meal for whatever fiery denizen of the deep lives down here.’
Jack glanced one last time at the stone pillar to his left with the golden Atlantis symbol embedded in it, then manually expelled air from his buoyancy compensator before angling down to follow the slope of the tunnel, kicking forcefully with his fins. He could hear the hiss of the automated buoyancy control bleeding air into his suit, maintaining his buoyancy at neutral. The lamps on either side of his helmet illuminated the tunnel ahead to a distance of at least fifteen metres, showing the ragged edges of the lava where the borer had dug through and a trail of debris on the bottom where the conveyor had taken the broken material up the tunnel and out on to the flank of the volcano. Back up the tunnel the lava had mostly been
phoehoe
, billowy and ropy shapes where the molten rock had quickly cooled on contact with the water, whereas in the tunnel ahead it looked like Hawaiian
‘a‘
lava, stonier and more clinky, a result of slower cooling that had left it denser and less aerated. Where the borer had cut into the harder lava, Jack could see a spiralling pattern extending down the tunnel, making it seem like a vortex. As he swam on he began to see tiny bubbles rising from the depths ahead of them, swirling up like a twisting veil.
‘That’s boiling-hot carbon dioxide and sulphur dioxide, the volcano off-gassing,’ Costas said from behind him. ‘That’s the stuff that makes it poisonous to be anywhere near an eruption like this topside without breathing gear.’
Costas had swum up close behind him, and Jack saw his form reflected in the edge of his helmet. The glass visor was a flat surface set on a slight curve where it closed against the helmet, using external water pressure to make the strongest possible seal; after almost a decade using the e-suit, Jack had got used to the centimetre or so of distorted vision it created around the periphery of the glass plate. But now, seeing the elongated form of Costas’ helmet, it seemed like an optical illusion,as if the distorted image around his visor rim had become part of the walls of the tunnel beside him. He began to see multiple images as if he were looking into numerous reflecting mirrors, shifting as Costas moved his headlamp and the reflection changed. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, trying to focus on the tunnel ahead. ‘Tell me I’m not hallucinating,’ he said. ‘For a moment I was seeing multiple images of you on the edge of my visor, as if they were spiralling around the tunnel.’
‘It’s called polyapsia,’ Costas replied. ‘Lanowski’s been telling me about it. It’s a common altered-consciousness vision.’
‘You mean a psychedelic trip. That’s the last thing I want down here.’
‘You were just seeing multiple reflections, set against the apparent swirl of the tunnel ahead of us. Your mind was playing tricks on you. Lanowski thinks that’s what prehistoric people were doing in places like this, in caves and tunnels: having altered-consciousness experiences. What you’ve just seen shows how easily they could have done it. And they wouldn’t have been able to rationalize it as we can.’
Jack blinked and stared ahead, seeing the cut marks made by the titanium bit of the boring machine, then shifted his
‘Twenty-two degrees Celsius,’ Costas replied.
‘Seems a little hot. Mine’s twenty.’
‘You’re a Viking, remember? I’m Mediterranean. And I’m keeping myself in training for that tropical island you promised.’
Jack glanced down at the clear plastic tube inside his helmet beside his mouth, leading to a freshwater bag inside the rebreather console on his back. ‘Just make sure you keep hydrated,’ he replied. ‘Remember,the more you sweat, the more likely you are to get the bends when we go back up.’
‘My thermostat’s set at twenty-two max. And I have no intention of being a boil-in-the-bag meal for whatever fiery denizen of the deep lives down here.’
Jack glanced one last time at the stone pillar to his left with the golden Atlantis symbol embedded in it, then manually expelled air from his buoyancy compensator before angling down to follow the slope of the tunnel, kicking forcefully with his fins. He could hear the hiss of the automated buoyancy control bleeding air into his suit, maintaining his buoyancy at neutral. The lamps on either side of his helmet illuminated the tunnel ahead to a distance of at least fifteen metres, showing the ragged edges of the lava where the borer had dug through and a trail of debris on the bottom where the conveyor had taken the broken material up the tunnel and out on to the flank of the volcano. Back up the tunnel the lava had mostly been
phoehoe
, billowy and ropy shapes where the molten rock had quickly cooled on contact with the water, whereas in the tunnel ahead it looked like Hawaiian
‘a‘
lava, stonier and more clinky, a result of slower cooling that had left it denser and less aerated. Where the borer had cut into the harder lava, Jack could see a spiralling pattern extending down the tunnel, making it seem like a vortex. As he swam on he began to see tiny bubbles rising from the depths ahead of them, swirling up like a twisting veil.
‘That’s boiling-hot carbon dioxide and sulphur dioxide, the volcano off-gassing,’ Costas said from behind him. ‘That’s the stuff that makes it poisonous to be anywhere near an eruption like this topside without breathing gear.’
Costas had swum up close behind him, and Jack saw his form reflected in the edge of his helmet. The glass visor was a flat surface set on a slight curve where it closed against the helmet, using external water pressure to make the strongest possible seal; after almost a decade using the e-suit, Jack had got used to the centimetre or so of distorted vision it created around the periphery of the glass plate. But now, seeing the elongated form of Costas’ helmet, it seemed like an optical illusion,as if the distorted image around his visor rim had become part of the walls of the tunnel beside him. He began to see multiple images as if he were looking into numerous reflecting mirrors, shifting as Costas moved his headlamp and the reflection changed. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, trying to focus on the tunnel ahead. ‘Tell me I’m not hallucinating,’ he said. ‘For a moment I was seeing multiple images of you on the edge of my visor, as if they were spiralling around the tunnel.’
‘It’s called polyapsia,’ Costas replied. ‘Lanowski’s been telling me about it. It’s a common altered-consciousness vision.’
‘You mean a psychedelic trip. That’s the last thing I want down here.’
‘You were just seeing multiple reflections, set against the apparent swirl of the tunnel ahead of us. Your mind was playing tricks on you. Lanowski thinks that’s what prehistoric people were doing in places like this, in caves and tunnels: having altered-consciousness experiences. What you’ve just seen shows how easily they could have done it. And they wouldn’t have been able to rationalize it as we can.’
Jack blinked and stared ahead, seeing the cut marks made by the titanium bit of the boring machine, then shifted his
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