They’re deep in the Uncanny Valley, deeper than any manned survey has plumbed, and the walls of their bathysphere are three feet thick and groaning. The spotlamp is low. Things that aren’t quite human flicker by, curious, providing their own illumination.

It is very cold.

“Are we even sure this thing has a bottom?” mutters Iger, glancing again and again at the pressure gauge on his dash.

“I keep telling you,” says Noam, “its depth is subjective.”

“I can’t breathe.” Iger struggles with straps. “If I just–”

“Don’t take off the mask!”

Iger stops, swallowing. Surely he still has a face.