Priscilla blinked as the cold air hit her eyeballs. The figures at the DC-3 stepped down towards our duo. Five leather jackets and slacks, five badges on the jackets - some uniform, but not military and not a regular airline she recognised.
They waved across as they spotted the pair standing in the door hole. "Any chance of a large coffee guys?" said the one in the centre of the group.
Tall, clean shaven and square jawed, classic Hollywood looks, straight out of a fifties B-movie. Likewise his companions, the rest of the cast list. The short dark haired one, not as handsome, but fairly good looking and a nice smile - the boy your mother liked. A lanky type - bit of a stringbean, hair a tad overlong and unruly, jacket sleeves a fraction short. The guy with the funny face, the French Stewart/Don Knotts type, and - of course, the girl! Straight faced, serious, the type who would cut you to the quick with a short sentence fired from the hip.
They sauntered across from the plane. Wilkins watched them and his gaze moved beyond the plane and down the runway. Strange, he thought, it seemed shorter than he remembered any of the airport runways being. He did not recognise the copse of trees just beyond the runway either. It felt warmer than he recalled the day being on his way into work this morning.
At least the sky was blue and there was only one sun pinpointed overhead. For that he was thankful. Nevertheless, although he could not put his finger on it, things just felt different...