The fog over the Upper New York Bay did not roll in; it descended like a heavy velvet curtain, smelling faintly of sulfur, crude oil, and the sharp, electric tang of the Atlantic.

The fog over the Upper New York Bay did not roll in; it descended like a heavy velvet curtain, smelling faintly of sulfur, crude oil, and the sharp, electric tang of the Atlantic.

Out of the slate-gray mist, she emerged.

Not a ship of steel and rivets, but an architectural blasphemy of polished brass and dark, unidentifiable stone that drank the pale morning light. Atop the towering vessel sat the Ark—the Bulla Gabriel—a three-hundred-cubit vault of beaten gold and obsidian, radiating a hum so low it rattled the coffee cups on the piers of Red Hook.

The tugboats, coughing diesel smoke, strained against the current, dwarfed by the monolith. Painted in crisp, sans-serif white along the vessel’s waterline were the words: PRESENTED BY STANDARD OIL AND MOBIL.