Glen Kealey says the people who run this world do not live on it. They live in the moho discontinuity, the layer between the crust and the mantle: three miles down under the ocean, thirty-five under the Himalayas, run through with a geodesic net of tunnels whose joints are the town squares. The core is hell. The moho is heaven. The upper mantle in between is purgatory, and purgatory is a lab.

His premise is that human beings are a manufactured species. Not descended, built: engineered before the Ice Age by people who went into hiding under Antarctica in 24,000 BC and have been refining the stock ever since, breeding for the traits each job needs. What they are after, he says, is “slaves who do their own shopping.” What it is all for is a space program that can leave the solar system.

The people up here who look like they are in charge are not planning three hundred years ahead. They are following instructions. And none of it is hidden: the plan has not changed and does not need to, because it was written down, in the roots of ordinary words, in place names, inthe shapes of the letters themselves. He found it by reading encyclopedias cover to cover.

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