The body of Mack Styles was found at two o'clock that afternoon. By Tom Brazier and Frank Brooks, in a secluded spot on the Arizona desert. After he hadn't reported in they had gone out in a jeep to check up. They saw Mack's jeep nosing up out of a pocket as though peering at a white alkali flat just beyond.
They rounded the pocket and found Mack and both of them got suddenly sick and strove to hide their shock from each other.
Brazier said, "Jesus!" The word was both a curse and a prayer.
"What could have hit him?"
"Look at his legs. Broken—mangled. Like through a machine!"
"A gorilla could do that."
Brazier forebore the obvious retort and walked out onto the alkali flat. He stopped in its center and turned slowly, his eyes searching. They found nothing. He went to the edge of the flat and began circling it slowly. In four places there were marks in the dust. The marks formed the four corners of a huge square. Something might have set down there but you couldn't be sure. Probably dust-marks left by the swirling wind-devils that danced across the desert like miniature cyclones.
"There's a town over there."
Tom Brazier looked up quickly. Frank Brooks had come to stand by his side and was pointing off through a declivity in the rocks.
"Damned if there isn't. Ever see it before?"