"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 non-random
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, but he had the impression that the truckman who entered the
plane was no longer his own master. His movements seemed more sure and
confident, but above all it was the mute, angry eyes with which his
fellows regarded him that gave Chandler grounds for suspicion. He had
no time to worry about that; for in the same breath he felt himself
occupied once more.
He did not rise. His own voice said to him, "You. Votever you name, you
fellow vit de book! You go get de book verever you pud it and get on
dat ship dere, you see?" His eyes turned toward the waiting aircraft.
"And don't forget de book!"
He was released. "I won't," he said automatically, and then realized
that there was no longer anyone there to hear his answer.
When he retrieved the Gibran volume from the car and approached the
plane the loading crew said nothing. Evidently they knew what he was
doing--either because they too had been given instructions, or because
they were used to such things. He paused at the wheeled stairs.
"Listen," he said, "can you at least tell me where I'm going?"
The four remaining men looked at him silently, with the same angry,
worried expression he had seen on their faces before. They did not
answer, but after a moment one of them raised his arm and pointed.
West. Out toward the Pacific. Out toward some ten million square miles
of nearly empty sea.
* * * * *
Long before they reached their destination Chandler had reasoned what
it must be. He was correct: it was the islands of Hawaii.
Chandler knew that the pilot and his coopted partner were up forward,
in the crew compartment, but the door was locked and he never saw them
again. Apart from them he was the only living person on the plane.
The plane was lightly loaded with cargo of unidentifiable sorts. In
the rear section, where once tourist-class passengers had eaten their
complimentary tray meals and planned their vacations, the seats had
been removed and a thin scatter of crates and boxes were strapped to
the floor. In the luxury of the forward section Chandler sat, stared at
the water and drowsed. He seemed to be always sleepy. Perhaps it was
the consequence of his exertions; more likely it was a psychological
phenomenon. He was beyond worry. He had reached that point in emotional
fatigue when the sudden rattle of cannonfire or the enemy's banzai
charge can no longer flood the blood with adrenalin. The glands are
dry. The emotions have been triggered too often. Battle fatigue takes
men in many different ways, but in Chandler it was only apathy. He not
only could not worry, he could not even rouse himself to feel hunger,
although the pricking of habit made him get up and search the flight
kitchen, unsuccessfully, for food.
He had no idea how much time had passed when the hiss of the jets
changed key.
The horizon dipped below the wingtip and straightened again, and he
beheld land. He never saw the airfield, only water, then beach, then
water again, then a few buildings. Then there was a roar of jets, with
their clamshells deflecting their thrust forward to brake their speed,
and then the wheels were on the ground. As the plane stopped he felt
himself once more possessed. It was no longer terrifying--though
Chandler was sure he was doomed.
Without knowing where he was going or why he picked up the ripped book,
opened the cabin exit and stepped down onto the rolling steps that had
immediately been brought into place. He was conscious of a horde of
men swarming around the plane, stripping it of its cargo, and wondered
briefly at the rush; but he could not stop to watch them, his legs
carried him swiftly across a paved strip to where a police car was
cruising.
Chandler cringed inside, instinctively, but his body did not falter as
it stepped into the path of the car and raised its hand.
The police car jammed on its brakes. The policeman at the wheel,
Chandler thought inside himself, looked startled, but he also looked
resigned. "To de South Gate, qvickly," said Chandler's lips, and he
felt his legs carry him around to the door on the other side.
There was another policeman on the seat next to the driver. He leaped
like a hare to get the door open and get out before Chandler's body got
there. He made it with nothing to spare. "Jack, you go on, I'll tell
Headquarters," he said hurriedly. The driver nodded without speaking.
His lips were white. He reached over Chandler to close the door and
made a sharp U-turn.
As soon as the car was moving Chandler felt himself able to move his
lips again.
"I," he said. "I don't know--"
"Friend," said the policeman, "kindly keep your mouth shut. 'South
Gate,' the exec said, and South Gate is where I'm going."
Chandler shrugged and looked out the window ... just in time to see the
jet that had brought him to the islands once more lumbering into life.
It crept, wobbling its wingtips, over the ground, picked up speed,
roared across taxi strips and over rough ground and at last piled up
against an ungainly looking foreign airplane, a Russian jet by its
markings, in a thunderous crash and ball of flame as its fuel exploded.
No one got out.
It seemed that traffic to Hawaii was all one way.