by Michael Lane
They said it wouldn't work, that the groaning weight of water would crush them. Sweating rivets, skinned in iron, Bebee and Barton's bathysphere - oh how the sailors laughed at that name - a metal spider spinning a web down into the black. Above them daylight faded as the cable paid out, their lifeline, a scant two inches wide. The thick crystal eyes of the sphere clouded with ink; the walls grew cold as ice, slick with condensation. Still deeper, more than half a mile of water resting on the little bubble of metal, and the darkness gave way. Here, too, were stars.
Michael Lane is a Kelowna-based novelist.