3/16 MUC – LHR – JFK. The wing of our British Airways triple-seven is covered in greyish patterns that look like shadows of random vegetation, yet there is nothing between us and pure space above, except the receding atmosphere. I’m spending a long time looking at the control surface close to the fuselage, seeing it move up and down by tiniest amounts in irregular timing, smoothing out the randomness of the air to make, as our flight path, one of the straight lines we are known for.