It was a chilly, breezy early evening as Andrew Ryan stepped off the launch. Ryan gestured for his bodyguards and coxswain to wait in the boat, then turned and climbed the steps of the great lighthouse structure. It was modeled on ancient descriptions of the lighthouse of Alexandria, and it radiated that classical majesty. He paused partway up to take it all in, entranced by the tower, the surface entrance to Rapture.
He had ordained this… This was the manifestation of
WELCOME TO RAPTURE, read the metal letters over the great, round copper-plated Securis door. To either side of the art deco entrance rose streamlined chromium figures of men, statues built into the walls, looking as if they were supporting the building, their elongated, upraised arms straining for the heights.
The door opened as he approached, and Chief Sullivan, smiling, emerged to shake his hand; along with a beaming Greavy; a wryly glum, bearded Simon Wales—and Bill McDonagh, looking a bit stunned. Ryan was glad Bill was here to see this. He had sensed doubts in Bill sometimes—now Bill would see, they’d all see, that the “impossible” was possible.
Wales nodded to Ryan, barely managing a smile. “I think you’ll be pleased, Andrew.” He had a mild Dublin accent. “Sure, we’re nearly there…” The architect wore a pea jacket, a black turtleneck sweater, and black trousers, his round, balding head shiny with perspiration, his bruised-looking eyes gleaming.
They entered the high-ceilinged, hexagonal chamber, like the interior of a particularly grand observatory, their footsteps echoing on the marble floors. Intricately trimmed, picked out in precious metals, the entryway to Rapture had the spacious marble-and-gold gravitas of a capitol building’s rotunda—exactly as planned. Ryan felt a certain awe, gazing up at himself—at the giant gold bust of Andrew Ryan looking gravely down at whoever entered this place. The expression was stern but not angry. It expressed authority but also objectivity. It gave notice:
The statue seemed oddly mute, however. He would add a banner to let people entering here know that they were on the brink of a new society where men were not cramped by superstition or big government:
He made a mental note of it. He would not forget. And why not have welcoming music playing for those entering the lighthouse? Perhaps an instrumental of “La Mer,” a whimsically pertinent song.
Wales was talking about veneers and trim—“certain endemic leakage issues that have Daniel quite concerned”—but Ryan scarcely heard him. Wales was caught up in a designer’s fixation on details, superficialities. It was the big picture that was thrilling, and, gazing about himself now, Ryan was almost speechless with its power.
Sullivan led the way to the bathysphere that would take them down the shaft of water, a kind of specialized elevator, into Rapture herself…
“After you, sir,” Sullivan said.
Mouth dry with excitement, hands gently trembling, Ryan climbed into the bathysphere, the first transport in the Rapture Metro. The others followed and took their places in the small craft, knees nearly touching. It was a bit crowded, but it didn’t matter. The air crackled with anticipation.
Too bad the bathysphere’s television screen was blank at the moment; in time it would show a short film, “Welcome to Rapture,” for those permitted secret immigration to the new undersea colony.
Down they went, bubbles in the water-filled shaft streaming past them. The bathysphere’s cable creaked, but the ride was comfortable. “Runs smooth as silk, this,” Bill chuckled.
Then they’d arrived at the first vantage, the lounge from which they’d view the city of Rapture. The bathysphere opened almost soundlessly.
They climbed out of the bathysphere, and Ryan clapped Bill on the shoulder. “Bill—you’ve been down here a lot more than I have. You’d know the best view. Lead the way!”
Simon Wales didn’t seem pleased at that—but Bill had a great deal to do with the internal structure of Rapture. “Got ’er guts ’n’ garters in me hands,” he’d said once. And Ryan simply liked Bill McDonagh better than Wales. Though his genius was undeniable, there was something subtly unstable about the glum, spade-bearded man—as if Simon Wales were always a heartbeat from a shout that never quite burst free.
Bill grinned and made a sweeping “right this way” gesture. They struck off toward the big picture window to one side, where blue-and-green tinted light rippled across the floor…
Ryan stepped up to the window and gazed out at Rapture. The marvel rose up before them, seeming almost a natural outgrowth of this aquatic world, as much a part of the planet as the Himalayas. Electrically illuminated canyons of steel and glass gleamed; art deco towers soared; sunken buildings stood sturdily, dry inside; watertight skyscrapers reared without a sky in sight to scrape. The lines of Rapture’s magnificent architecture seemed to rocket toward the reticulating surface of the sea, some distance above, where light and shadow played tag. A school of golden-tailed fish swam by the window like a flock of birds, glittering as they passed. A raft of sea lions gamboled by up above, silhouettes near the surface.
Base lights streamed colored rays up the sides of the building—subtle reds and greens and purples attiring the towering edifices in a royal splendor. It was as impressive as the Grand Canyon or the Swiss Alps—but it was the work of man. It took Ryan’s breath away to look on it.
“Of course, it’s not quite finished—but you see what man’s
“It’s a wonder, is Rapture,” Bill said, huskily. “One of the wonders of the world!” Adding with a touch of regret: “Pity most of the world won’t know…”
“Oh, in time, they will,” Ryan assured him. “All who survive the destruction of the upper world—they will know Rapture! One day it will be the capital city of all civilization.”
“You’ve done it, sir!” Greavy declared, his voice trembling with an emotion he rarely showed.
Wales glanced at Greavy. “We’ve done it, all of us,” he said, irritated.
“Oh, it’s not quite fully realized, Greavy—but it is alive,” Ryan said glowingly. “A new world—where men and women will stand up on their own two feet in the glory of competition. They will empower themselves with struggle!”
Bill said, “But what about populating this miracle? Got to fill up all those buildings, guv…” So far, only a relatively few people lived in Rapture, mostly maintenance workers, engineers, some security.
Ryan nodded and took a folded paper from his coat pocket. “I’ve brought something along I wanted to share with you.” He unfolded the paper and read aloud to them.
“Tired of taxes? Tired of bullying governments, business regulations, unions, people expecting a handout from you? Want a new start? Do you have a skill, an ambition to be a pioneer? If you’re receiving this notice, you’ve already been considered and selected to fill out an application for a life in Rapture. This amazing new enterprise will require emigration. But it will cost you nothing except sweat and determination to come and take part in a new world. If our vetting team has done its job, you are not a trade unionist; you are a believer in free enterprise, competition, and carving your own path through the wilderness of the world. There is room for up to twenty thousand pioneers to thrive in this new society. We ask that you show this letter to no one, whatever your decision. If you’re interested…”
Ryan shrugged and folded the letter. “Just one of our recruiting tools, discreetly distributed. An early draft… Of course, Rapture’s not quite ready for the bulk of its population.”
“Has Prentice Mill made any progress on his Express?” Ryan asked, turning to Wales.
