Chandler got out of the car and strolled around, stretching. He realized he was very hungry.
No one was in sight. The field showed clear signs of having been through the same sort of destruction that had visited every major communications facility in the world. Part of the building before him was smashed flat and showed signs of having been burned. He saw projecting aluminum members, twisted and scorched but still visibly aircraft parts. Apparently a transport had crashed into the building. Burned-out cars littered the parking lot and what had once been a green lawn. They seemed to have been bulldozed out of the way, but not an inch farther than was necessary to clear the approach roads.
To his right, as he stared out onto the field, was a strange-looking construction on three legs, several stories high. It did not seem to serve any useful purpose. Perhaps it had been a sort of luxury restaurant at one time, like the Space Needle from the old Seattle Fair, but now it too was burned out and glassless in its windows. The field itself was swept bare except for two or three parked planes in the bays, but he could see wrecked transports lining the approach strips. All in all, Los Angeles International Airport appeared to be serviceable, but only just.
He wondered where all the people were.
Distant truck noises answered part of the question. An Army six by six came bumping across a bridge that led from the takeoff strips to this parking area of the airport. Five men got out next to one of the ships. They glanced at him but did not speak as they began loading crates of some sort of goods from the truck into the aircraft, a four-engine, sweptwing jet of what looked to Chandler like an obsolete model. Perhaps it was one of the early Boeings. There hadn’t been many of those in use at the time the troubles began, too big and fast for short hops, too slow to compete over long distances with the rockets. But, of course, with all the destruction, and with no new aircraft being built anywhere in the world any more, no doubt they were as good as could be found.
The truckmen did not seem to be possessed; they worked with the normal amount of grunting and swearing, pausing to wipe sweat away or to scratch an itch. They showed neither the intense malevolent concentration nor the wide-eyed idiot curiosity of those whose bodies were no longer their own. Chandler settled the woolen cap over the brand on his forehead, to avoid unpleasantness, and drifted over toward them.
They stopped work and regarded him. One of them said something to another, who nodded and walked toward Chandler. “What do you want?” he demanded warily.
“I don’t know. I was going to ask you the same question, I guess.”
The man scowled. “Didn’t your exec tell you what to do?”
“My what?”
The man paused, scratched and shook his head. “Well, stay away from us. This is an important shipment, see? I guess you’re all right or you couldn’t’ve got past the guards, but I don’t want you messing us up. Got enough trouble already. I don’t know why,” he said in the tones of an old grievance, “we can’t get the execs to let us know when they’re going to bring somebody in. It wouldn’t hurt them! Now here we got to load and fuel this ship and, for all I know, you’ve got half a ton of junk around somewhere that you’re going to load onto it. How do I know how much fuel it’ll take? No weather, naturally. So if there’s headwinds it’ll take full tanks, but if there’s extra cargo I—”
“The only cargo I brought with me that I can think of is a book,” said Chandler. “Weighs maybe a pound. You think I’m supposed to get on that plane?”
The man grunted non-committally.
“All right, suit yourself. Listen, is there any place I can get something to eat?”
The man considered. “Well, I guess we can spare you a sandwich. But you wait here. I’ll bring it to you.”
He went back to the truck. A moment later one of the others brought Chandler two cold hamburgers wrapped in waxed paper, but would answer no questions.
Chandler ate every crumb, sought and found a washroom in the wrecked building, came out again and sat in the sun, watching the loading crew. He had become quite a fatalist. It did not seem that it was intended he should die immediately, so he might as well live.
There were large gaps in his understanding, but it seemed clear to Chandler that these men, though not possessed, were in some way working for the possessors. It was a distasteful concept; but on second thought it had reassuring elements. It was evidence that whatever the “execs” were, they were very possibly human beings—or, if not precisely human, at least shared the human trait of working by some sort of organized effort toward some sort of a goal. It was the first nonrandom phenomenon he had seen in connection with the possessors, barring the short-term tactical matters of mass slaughter and destruction. It made him feel—what he tried at once to suppress, for he feared another destroying frustration—a touch of hope.
The men finished their work but did not leave. Nor did they approach Chandler, but sat in the shade of their truck, waiting for something. He drowsed and was awakened by a distant sputter of a single-engined Aerocoupe that hopped across the building behind him, turned sharply and came down with a brisk little run in the parking bay itself.
From one side the pilot climbed down and from the other two men lifted, with great care, a wooden crate, small but apparently heavy. They stowed it in the jet while the pilot stood watching; then the pilot and one of the other men got into the crew compartment. Chandler could not be sure,
