He is about to make the final descent in his bathysphere, he says. He’s about to plunge into the depths of thought’s trench, of thought’s abyss.

How deep he has come! How far down he has plummeted! He mustn’t think of the million-ton column of water above him. He mustn’t think of the straining and groaning of his bathysphere, or of the chance that the steel sphere will buckle and crack. A single drop of water, should it breach the cabin, would shoot through his flesh and bone like a bullet ...

But he thinks of only of sinking yet further. Of the undersea darkness no searchlight can illuminate. Of the creatures of thought’s depths, stranger than any yet seen.

Is he strong enough for thought?, he wonders, as he is lowered further. Can he bear thought – the pressure of thought?, he wonders. What will thinking do to him? How will it change him? Will be ever be able to return to the surface? Will he be capable of living a normal life?

Is thought worth it?, he wonders, as bubbles flood past his capsule. Did he have any choice but to think? To be cursed by thought, by the capacity to think – by the necessity of thought?