"Perhaps in the city—" he murmured. "Yes, the city."
The City was 20 miles away, and he selected an automobile, one in which there were no still people. It had been a long time since he'd driven, nearly ten years, but after a few moments of fumbling, remembrance came easily. With Sandy and the pup on the front seat beside him, he drove....
The City was as empty as an ancient skull. There was no life and no reminder of life. There were no still people and no automobiles and no movement and no sound. The towering white office buildings, the broad avenues, the theatres, the parks—all seemed hollow and unreal, like a desert mirage that would dissolve into nothingness at the whispering touch of a breeze.
Martin mumbled, "I reckon, Sandy, that everybody left the City. They headed for the country. That's why we passed so many cars."
He spied the office of The Times. "Maybe we can find out something in there," he said. "Come on, Sandy. Pup, you stay here."
He parked the car and strode into the building, past desks, cabinets, typewriters, stacked bundles of newspapers.
Then he saw the man. He was one of the silent men, sprawled back in a chair, a typewriter before him. He had been writing, evidently, for one stiff, white hand was still poised over the keys.
Martin read the typewritten words aloud:
"The enemy had apparently underestimated the power of the odorless, tasteless gas. A Nitrogen compound of extreme volutility, it has reached virtually every inch of the Earth. The enemy is destroyed as we are destroyed. Gas masks and air filters have proved useless. The gas is highly unstable and should disintegrate within 48 hours, yet because of the suddenness of the attack, we can conclude only that humanity is—" The message broke off.