They were approaching the bottom of Bartlett Deep when they saw the first gigantic splashes of lettering, emblazoned like the heraldic script of a Titan across the face of the wall. The doctor was beside himself with the frenzy of his discovery, but could make nothing of it because the wall was much too near. It was like looking at a billboard from a distance of six inches, and so Dr. Hans Weigand passed the last moments of his life as he had lived the greater part of it, in disappointment and frustration. Fortenay, bemused by his dream, took no such interest. Actually he felt a little smug that he should have had the acumen to recognize it for what it was even before he woke and that he should have been able, even in the grip of a nightmare, to face down a big-time myth-making scientist like Wiggy on his own ground. All this would vanish soon, he told himself, even as the first sudden tracery of strain-fissures appeared in the quartz-glass shell of the bathysphere. A dream is a myth and a myth is a dream, and he would wake up soon-- The bathysphere burst, crushed, as Fortenay would have said, like an eggshell. Fortenay woke, not from a dream but from an existence. He found himself standing on a smooth floor of shell before a vast and featureless building whose facade towered mistily up out of sight. Little eddies of current bore tiny, feathery creatures that brushed past and through him, glowing phosphorescently. Glittering fragments of the shattered bathysphere fell like a rain of outsized diamonds about his feet. * * * * * Dr. Weigand stood beside him, bifocaled eyes speculative, his whiskers comfortably afloat like seaweed in the green water. "I think we go inside when the door opens," the good doctor said. "Inside?" echoed Fortenay. "To what?" "To a myth," said Dr. Weigand. "A myth that was made for such lost ones as you and I." Fortenay saw the legend then. It was far up on the facade, above the doorway, and at such a distance the quaint antique script, like its meaning, was wonderfully and fearfully clear: DAVY JONES' LOCKER. The door that opened led downward and outward, companion-wise, to a green and enigmatic beyond. "Let us go, my little friend," said Dr. Weigand. "It is better not to be sent for, I think." And Fortenay went, because he had no choice.