There is a man watching birds from the farthest window in the observation car. Azure-winged magpies—Cyanopica cyanus—burst from willow trees as the train roars past, the long feathers of their tails iridescent in the afternoon sunlight. When Henry Grey looks at a living thing he sees it as a system of vessels, connected to each other in a pattern of infinite skill. He wants to get closer, longs to touch each quickening of sinew and twitch of muscle, to feel the pulse of life beneath his fingers. In his mind’s eye he walks the corridors of a great glass building, each room filled with marvelous
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