The Descent

She was awed by  the grandeur of  it.  Such  imperial  vision:  it  was  virtually  psychotic. And she and these  scientists were  to be the agents in gaining it.

Her neighbors were  lodged in their own  thoughts.  Most  were  probably  weighing  the risks, adjusting their search goals, adapting to the vastness  of  the  challenge,  reckoning the odds.

'Shoat!' a man bellowed.

Shoat's face obligingly appeared at the podium light.

'No one said anything about this,' the man said.

'You did sign on for a year,'  Shoat pointed out.

'You  expect  us  to  traverse  the  Pacific  Ocean?  A  mile  to  three  miles  beneath  the ocean floor? Through unexplored territory?  Hadal territory?'

'I'll be with you every  step  of the way,' Shoat said.

'But no one's ever  gone west  of the Nazca Plate.'

'That's true.  We'll be the first.'

'You're talking about being on the move for an entire year.'

'Precisely  our  reason  for  sending  you  a  workout  schedule  over  the  last  six  months. All those climbing walls and StairMasters  and  heavy  squats  weren't  for  your  cosmetic enhancement.'

Ali could sense the group calculating.

'You have  no idea what's out there,' someone said.

'That's not  exactly  true,'  Shoat  said.  'We  have  some  idea.  Two  years  ago,  a  military reconnaisance  probed   some  of  the   path.   Basically  they   found   the   remains   of   a prehistoric passageway,  a network  of tunnels and chambers  that  are  well  marked  and have  been  improved  and  maintained  over  a  period  of  several  thousand  years.  We think it may  have  been a kind of Silk Road for the Pacific abyss.'

'How far did the soldiers get?'

'Twenty-three  miles,' Shoat answered. 'Then they  turned around and came back.'

'Armed soldiers.'

Shoat was unflappable. 'They  weren't  prepared.  We are.'

'What about hadals?'

'There  hasn't  been  a  sighting  in  over  two  years,'  Shoat  said.  'But  just  to  be  safe, Helios has hired a security  force. They  will accompany us every  step  of the way.'

A  gentleman  stood.  He  had  Isaac  Asimov  muttonchops  and  black  horn-rims,  and had X'ed out the  word  'Hi'  on  his  name  tag.  Ali  knew  his  face  from  the  dust  jackets  of his  numerous  books:  Donald  Spurrier,  a  renowned  primatologist.  'What  about  human limitations? Your  projected route must be five thousand miles long.'

The  cartographer  turned  to  the  glowing  map.  His  finger  traced  a  set  of  lines  that ambled  back  and  forth  across  the  equatorial  rhumb.  'In  fact,  with  all  the  bends  and turns  and  vertical  loss  and  gain,  a  better  estimate  is  eight  thousand  miles,  plus  or minus a thousand.'

'Eight thousand miles?' said Spurrier. 'In a single year?  On foot?'

'For  what  it's  worth,  our  train  ride  just  gave  us  an  easy  thirteen  hundred  miles without a step.'

'Leaving a mere  6,700 miles. Are  we supposed to run nonstop for a year?'

'Mother Nature  is lending a hand,' the cartographer  said.

'We've  detected  significant  motion  along  the  route,'  Shoat  said.  'We  believe  it's  a river.'

'A river?'

'Moving from east  to west.  Thousands of miles long.'

'A theoretical river.  You haven't seen it.'

'We'll be the first.'

Spurrier was no longer resisting. 'We won't go thirsty,  then.'

'Don't you see?' Shoat said. 'It  means we can float.' They  were  dazzled.

'What about supplies? How can we hope to carry  enough for a year?'

'We  start  with  porters.  Every  four  to  six  weeks  thereafter,  we  will  be  supplied  by drill hole. Helios has already  begun drilling supply holes for us at selected  points.  They will  drill  straight  through  the  ocean  floor  to  intersect  our  route,  and  lower  food  and gear.  At  those  points,  by  the  way,  we'll  have  brief  contact  with  the  World.  You'll  be able  to  communicate  with  your  families.  We'll  even  be  able  to  evacuate  the  sick  or injured.'

It  all sounded reasonable.

'It's  radical.  It's  daring,'  Shoat  said.  'It's  one  year  out  of  your  lives.  We  could  have spent  it  sitting  on  our  butts  in  a  hole  like  this.  Instead,  one  year  from  now,  we'll  go down  in  history.  You'll  be  writing  papers  and  publishing  books  about  this  for  the  rest of  your  lives.  It  will  cement  your  tenure,  gain  you  chairs  of  departments,  win  you prizes  and  acclaim.  Your  children  and  grandchildren  will  beg  you  for  the  tale  of  what you're about to do.'

'This  is  a  huge  decision,'  a  man  said.  'I  need  to  consult  my  wife.'  A  general  murmur agreed.

'I'm afraid the communications line is down.' It  was a blatant  lie,  Ali  could  see  it.  But that was part  of the price. He was drawing a line for  them  to  step  across.  'You  may,  of course,  post  mail.  The  next  train  back  to  Nazca  City  leaves  two  months  from  now.' Helios was playing hardball, a total embargo on information.