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Unlike the other modern titanium-and-polycarbonate-composite mini-subs here, this diving bell had been part of this vessel’s original complement, crafted by the same master of the seas who had forged the Coelacanth.

The Tinker was a treasured relic—a gleaming geodesic bubble of foamed gold alloy encrusted with half-meter circles of diamond windows coaxed from the earth and polished to perfection—constructed to withstand pressures that would crush her modern counterparts like Styrofoam coffee cups. The mermaids along her curves still gleamed and beckoned as if they had been carved yesterday.

The diving bell was lowered into the moon pool, and a soft blue light glowed to life as she touched the ocean.

Gilbert and Aaron waited for Henry, and from the crossed arms and look on Aaron’s face, he could tell they had been waiting some time.

“Am I late?”

“Is that a question?” Gilbert muttered, and straightened the cuffs of his black captain’s uniform. “By the way, have you seen my hat?”

“Not recently . . . ,” Henry replied.

Henry could see why Gilbert, with beard trimmed in precise stylish angles, and the Coelacanth had inspired Mr. Wells to write an entire novel about them.

Aaron donned a leather bomber jacket and offered one to Henry.

“No thank you,” Henry said. “I shall be quite comfortable.”

Gilbert boarded the craft. Henry crossed the gangplank and ducked through the tiny doorway. Aaron was right behind him (cowboys boots clonking over the metal), and once aboard, he irised the outer hatch, and then wheeled tight the inner hatch.

Portals offered views all the way around, as well as up and down. Control panels, levers, and valves made a ring of controls along the outer surface of the Tinker—which Aaron and Gilbert busied themselves pulling and prodding and checking. One panel was dotted with empty vacuum tube receptacles, and a laptop computer had been soldered upon it.

Henry gravitated to the center of the craft, where shrimp cocktails lounged on a bed of chipped ice, along with caviar and fresh sushi. A dozen thermoses of heated sake were labeled: KAKUNKO JUNMAI DAI GINJYO.

Dire circumstances and the possible end of the world notwithstanding, Cousin Gilbert could always be counted on to be an impeccable host.

“Care to lend a hand?” Aaron growled.

“Not really,” Henry replied as he munched on a shrimp.

Gilbert spoke into a tiny gramophone-like device: “Ready to launch, Mr. Harper. Steady as she goes.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” a voice from the gramophone replied.

“Mark gyrocompasses,” Gilbert told Aaron.

Aaron flipped switches. “Online and checked.”

The Tinker eased below the waterline. Her glow lines intensified to a brilliant blue as they descended into the darkness.

Gilbert then spoke to gramophone again: “Sever connections, Mr. Harper. Coelacanth to station keeping.”

“Station keeping, aye, sir. Tinker away.”

There was a clack, and then the diving bell floated free . . . and proceeded to sink to the bottom of the ocean.

The exterior lights were bright enough that Henry saw the seafloor beneath his feet. It grew as they approached a crack in the earth a hundred meters wide. This particular abyss had remained undiscovered by man, and Henry hoped it would remain that way for a long, long time.

They entered the chasm, and Henry spied the columns and stairs that zigzagged at angles that should not (in any strict Euclidian sense) exist. He averted his eyes and tried not to look at the tentacled idols and cavernous temples that clung to the walls like ancient crustaceans. The shadows of shadows moved within those places. These were the remains of a civilization that predated the Titans: the Old Ones who had vanished from this world . . . or as some feared, were still dreaming in a nonstate in the In-Between Places.

Henry just hoped that, as League experts predicted, this trench would in a century subduct under the mantle. Only then would he be able to safely forget about it.

Until then, everyone avoided the place . . . which was precisely why