The Descent

'Why  not?  Why  not  the  author  of  the  Prester  John  letters?  The  author  of  a  Christ hoax? Perhaps even  the author of the legends of Christ and Buddha and Mohammed?'

'You're saying...'

'Yes,' said de l'Orme. 'Meet  Satan.'

Those new regions which we found and explored... we may rightly call a New World... a continent more densely peopled and abounding in animals than our Europe or Asia or Africa.

– AMERIGO VESPUCCI, on America

14

THE HOLE

The Colon Ridge Zone

'July  7,'  Ali  recorded.  'Camp  39:  5,012  fathoms,  79  degrees  F.  We  reached  Cache  I

today.'

She looked up to gather  in the scene. How to put this?

Mozart  was  flooding  the  chamber  over  Dolby  speakers.  Lights  blazed  with  the  glut of cable-fed electricity. Wine  bottles  and  chicken  bones  littered  the  floor.  A  conga  line of  filthy,  trail-hardened  scientists  was  snaking  across  the  tilted  floor.  To  The  Magic Flute.

'Joy!' she printed neatly.

The  celebration rocked around her.

Until  this  afternoon  it  had  been  one  vast,  unspoken  doubt  that  the  cache  would  be here.  Geologists  had  muttered  that  the   feat   was   impossible,  suggesting   that   the tunnels shifted about down here, as dodgy  as  snakes.  But  just  as  Shoat  had  promised, the penetrator  capsules were  waiting for them. The  surface  crews  had  punched  a  drill hole  through  the  ocean  floor  and  landed  the  cargo  dead  on  target,  at  their  exact elevation and place in the tunnels. A few meters  to the right or left, or higher  or  lower, and  everything  would  have  been  socketed  in  solid  bedrock  and  irretrievable.  Their retreat  to  civilization  would  have  been  vexed,  to  say  the  least,  for  their  food  was running low.

But  now  they  had  all  the  provisions  and  gear  and  clothing  necessary  for  the  next eight  weeks,  plus  tonight's  wine  and  loudspeakers  for  the  opera  and  a  holographic

'Bully  for  You'  speech  from  C.C.  Cooper  himself.  You  are  the  beginning  of  history,  his small laser ghost toasted them.

For the first time in almost five  weeks,  Ali  could  write  on  her  day  map  their  precise

coordinates: '107  degrees,  20  minutes  W  /  3  degrees,  50  minutes  N.'  On  a  traditional map  of  the  surface,  they  were  somewhere  south  of  Mexico  in  blue,  islandless  water. An  ocean-floor  map  placed  them  beneath  a  feature  called  the  Colon  Ridge,  near  the western  edge of the Nazca Plate.

Ali took a sip of the  Chardonnay  that  Helios  had  sent.  She  closed  her  eyes  while  the Queen  of  the  Night  sang  her  brokenhearted  aria.  Someone  up  top  had  a  sense  of humor.  Mozart's  magical  underworld?  At  least  they  hadn't  sent  The  Damnation  of Faust.

The   three   forty-foot   cylinders   lay   on  their   sides   among   the   drill   rubble,   like tipped-over  rocket  ships.  Their  discarded  hatch  doors  set  among  cables  tangled  in  a steel  rat's  nest,  salt  water  trickling  down  from  a  mile  overhead.  Various  lines  hung from the three-foot-wide  hole in the ceiling, one for communications, two to feed  them voltage from the surface, another dedicated to downloading compressed vid-mail from home.  One  of  the  porters  sat  beside  the  second  electric  cable,  recharging  a  small mountain  of  batteries  for  their  headlamps  and  flashlights  and  lab  equipment  and laptop computers.

Walker's  quartermaster  and  various  helpers  were  working  overtime,  sorting  the shipment,  stockpiling  boxes,  shouting  out  numbers.  Helios  had  also  delivered  them mail, twenty-four  ounces per person.

As  part  of  her  vow  of  poverty,  Ali  had  grown  used  to  only  small  portions  of  home news.  Yet  she  was  disappointed  at  how  little  mail  January  had  sent  her.  As  always, the  note  was  handwritten  on  Senate  letterhead.  It  was  dated  two  weeks  earlier,  and the   envelope   had   been   tampered   with,   which   possibly   explained   the   sparse information   it   contained.   January   had   learned   of   their   secret   departure   from Esperanza, and was heartsick that Ali had chosen to go deeper.

'You  belong...  Where?  Not  out  there,  not  unseen,  not  beyond  my  reach.  Ali,  I  feel like you've  taken  something from me.  The  world  was  big  enough  without  you  slipping away  like  a  shadow  in  the  night.  Please  call  or  write  me  at  first  chance.  And  please return. If others are turning back, go with them.'

There  was oblique mention of the Beowulf scholars' progress: 'Work proceeds  on  the dam project.' That  was their code for the identification of Satan. 'As  of  yet,  no  location, few  specifics,  perhaps  new  terrain.'  For  some  reason,  January  had  included  a  few enhanced  photographs  of  the  Turin  Shroud,  with  some  three-dimensional  computer images of the head. Ali didn't know what to make of that.