New York City . The subway, the Flushing I.R.T. from Times Square to Willets Point. The door closes and the subway train begins its run. It rolls at its usual pace out of the station, goes on to the next, and glides to a stop. Guards intone the familiar names and numbers, open the doors, and close them.
People come in and go out.
The train speeds beneath half the City and then flashes into open air, climbs above the roofs and chimneys of the Borough of Queens and carries on, clackety-clack. The guard, who has been gazing dully to the north, turns now to the south, steps nearer the windows. Passengers turn their heads, too, and look out over the sea of Corona's flat roofs. Far away, on the dim horizon, a bright gleam breaks through the mist. It is like the flash of a white bird's wing, but a flash which repeats itself and becomes a steady glow as if a ray of the sun had found some bright thing hidden in the vapor-laden air.