"_Nyet._" The voices droned on. Chandler lost interest in the argument
and was only relieved when it seemed somehow to be settled and he was
herded into the back of the truck. The somber Mexican locked him in; he
felt the truck begin to move; his tenant left him, and he was at once
asleep.
He woke long enough to find himself standing in the mist of early dawn
at a crossroads. In a few minutes another car came by, and his voice
talked earnestly with the driver for a moment. Chandler got in, was
released, slept again and woke to find himself free and abandoned,
sprawled across the back seat of the car, which was parked in front of
a building marked Los Angeles International Airport.
* * * * *
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,
swept-wing 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."