philip josé farmer Opening the Door The voyage from sixteen to seventeen was dark and silent.
Up above, he knew, were light and air, blue clouds, white skies. No, it was the other way around. Blue skies. White clouds. And the wind shushed, the waves slapped, the gulls screamed. And somewhere, far off, human beings spoke.
He cruised along in the dark of the deep. He felt the pressure—its cold, its indifference.
Sometimes, he could put up a periscope. He could drive it up through the congealing and freezing substance. He could drive it up, up, until it was near the surface. He knew that it was near, where water and air met—or parted—because he would see a glimmer. And the voices became stronger.
Then he would cry out through the periscope. But nobody answered. And though he tried to keep going up, he would sink. The glimmer would dissolve, and the cold and pressure would return.
. . .
