Sphere

by Michael Crichton

“With your hands full of snakes, you looked like Medusa.” “What is that, a rock star?” “No, it’s a mythological figure.” “The one who killed her children?” she asked, with a quick suspicious glance. Beth, ever alert to a veiled insult. “No, that’s somebody else. That was Medea. Medusa was a mythical woman with a head full of snakes who turned men to stone if they looked at her. Perseus killed her by looking at her reflection in his polished shield.” “Sorry, Norman. Not my field.” It was remarkable, he thought, that at one time every educated Western person knew these figures from mythology and the stories behind them intimately—as intimately as they knew the stories of families and friends. Myths had once represented the common knowledge of humanity, and they served as a kind of map of consciousness. But now a well-educated person such as Beth knew nothing of myths at all. It was as if men had decided that the map of human consciousness had changed. But had it really changed? He shivered. “Still cold, Norman?” “Yeah. But the worst thing is the headache.” “You’re probably dehydrated. Let’s see if I can find something for you to drink.” She went to the first-aid box on the wall. “You know, that was a hell of a thing you did,” Beth said. “Jumping in like that without a suit. That water’s only a couple of degrees above freezing. It was very brave. Stupid, but brave.” She smiled. “You saved my life, Norman.” “I didn’t think,” Norman said. “I just did it.” And then he told her h...