High above the harbor, perched on a temporary cantilevered viewing platform bolted to the skeletal remains of an old sugar refinery, Arthur Pendelton adjusted the heavy binoculars to his eyes. His wool coat was soaked through with spray. Behind him, the technicians of the joint cinematic crew—Pathé and Technicolor working in tandem—swore softly as they cranked the heavy wooden handles of the cameras.

High above the harbor, perched on a temporary cantilevered viewing platform bolted to the skeletal remains of an old sugar refinery, Arthur Pendelton adjusted the heavy binoculars to his eyes. His wool coat was soaked through with spray. Behind him, the technicians of the joint cinematic crew—Pathé and Technicolor working in tandem—swore softly as they cranked the heavy wooden handles of the cameras.

"More light!" the director barked, his voice lost to the wind. "God damn it, I want the gold on that lid to burn through the film stock! This isn't just a transport, boys. This is the dawn of the American Century."

Arthur lowered the binoculars. Through the lenses, he could see the engineers on the deck. They wore heavy rubber aprons and gas masks, their gloved hands guiding massive hydraulic clamps that locked the Ark’s base to the reinforced concrete hull. They didn't look like men who had found the divine; they looked like roughnecks on a Texas wildcatter rig, sweating and cursing in the presence of something they couldn't possibly understand, but were obligated to monetize.