“What do you mean?” Albert asked.

“The clocks — the electric ones, anyway — are no good. There’s no juice. But if the sun was out, we could get at least a rough idea of what time it is by the length and direction of our shadows. My watch says it’s going on quarter of nine, but I don’t trust it. It feels later to me than that. I have no proof for it, and I can’t explain it, but it does.”

Albert thought about it. Looked around. Looked back at Jenkins. “You know,” he said, “it does. It feels like it’s almost lunchtime. Isn’t that nuts?”

“It’s not nuts,” Bethany said, “it’s just jetlag.”

“I disagree,” Jenkins said. “We travelled west to east, young lady. Any temporal dislocation west-east travellers feel goes the other way. They feel it’s earlier than it should be.”

“I want to ask you about something you said on the plane,” Albert said. “When the captain told us that there must be some other people here, you said ‘false logic.’ In fact, you said it twice. But it seems straight enough to me. We were all asleep, and we’re here. And if this thing happened at—” Albert glanced toward the clock, “at 4:07, Bangor time, almost everyone in town must have been asleep.”

“Yes,” Jenkins said blandly. “So where are they?”

Albert was nonplussed. “Well...”

There was a bang as Nick forcibly hung up one of the pay telephones. It was the last in a long line of them; he had tried every one. “It’s a wash—” out,” he said. “They’re all dead. The coin-fed ones as well as the direct-dials. You can add the sound of no phones ringing to that of no dogs barking, Brian.”

“So what do we do now?” Laurel asked. She heard the forlorn sound of her own voice and it made her feel very small, very lost. Beside her, Dinah was turning in slow circles. She looked like a human radar dish.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Baldy proposed. “That’s where the restaurant must be.”

They all looked at him. Gaffney snorted. “You got a one-track mind, mister.”

The bald man looked at him from beneath one raised eyebrow. “First, the name is Rudy Warwick, not mister,” he replied. “Second, people think better when their stomachs are full.” He shrugged. “It’s just a law of nature.”

“I think Mr Warwick is quite right,” Jenkins said. “We all could use something to eat... and if we go upstairs, we may find some other clues pointing toward what has happened. In fact, I rather think we will.”

Nick shrugged. He looked suddenly tired and confused. “Why not?” he said. “I’m starting to feel like Mr Robinson Bloody Crusoe.”

They started toward the escalator, which was also dead, in a straggling little group. Albert, Bethany, and Bob Jenkins walked together, toward the rear.

“You know something, don’t you?” Albert asked abruptly. “What is it?”

“I might know something,” Jenkins corrected. “I might not. For the time being I’m going to hold my peace... except for one suggestion.”

“What?”

“It’s not for you; it’s for the young lady.” He turned to Bethany. “Save your matches. That’s my suggestion.”

“What?” Bethany frowned at him.

“You heard me.”

“Yeah, I guess I did, but I don’t get what you mean. There’s probably a newsstand upstairs, Mr Jenkins. They’ll have lots of matches. Cigarettes and disposable lighters, too.”

“I agree,” Jenkins said. “I still advise you to save your matches.”

He’s playing Philo Christie or whoever it was again, Albert thought.

He was about to point this out and ask Jenkins to please remember that this wasn’t one of his novels when Brian Engle stopped at the foot of the escalator, so suddenly that Laurel had to jerk sharply on Dinah’s hand to keep the blind girl from running into him.

“Watch where you’re going, okay?” Laurel asked. “In case you didn’t notice, the kid here can’t see.”

Brian ignored her. He was looking around at the little group of refugees. “Where’s Mr Toomy?”

“Who?” the bald man — Warwick — asked.

“The guy with the pressing appointment in Boston.”

“Who cares?” Gaffney asked. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

But Brian was uneasy. He didn’t like the idea that Toomy had slipped away and gone off on his own. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t like that idea at all. He glanced at Nick. Nick shrugged, then shook his head. “Didn’t see him go, mate. I was fooling with the phones. Sorry.”

“Toomy!” Brian shouted. “Craig Toomy! Where are you?”

There was no response. Only that queer, oppressive silence. And Laurel noticed something then, something that made her skin cold. Brian had cupped his hands and shouted up the escalator. In a high-ceilinged place like this one, there should have been at least some echo.

But there had been none. No echo at all.

While the others were occupied downstairs — the two teenagers and the old geezer standing by one of the car-rental desks, the others watching the British thug as he tried the phones — Craig Toomy had crept up the stalled escalator as quietly as a mouse. He knew exactly where he wanted to go; he knew exactly what to look for when he got there.

He strode briskly across the large waiting room with his briefcase swinging beside his right knee, ignoring both the empty chairs and an empty bar called The Red Baron. At the far end of the room was a sign hanging over the mouth of a wide, dark corridor. It read

GATE 5 INTERNATIONAL ARRIVALS

DUTY FREE SHOPS

U.S. CUSTOMS

AIRPORT SECURITY

He had almost reached the head of this corridor when he glanced out one of the wide windows at the tarmac again... and his pace faltered. He approached the glass slowly and looked out.

There was nothing to see but the empty concrete and the moveless white sky, but his eyes began to widen nonetheless and he felt fear begin to steal into his heart.

They’re coming, a dead voice suddenly told him. It was the voice of his father, and it spoke from a small, haunted mausoleum tucked away in a gloomy corner of Craig Toomy’s heart.

“No,” he whispered, and the word spun a little blossom of fog on the window in front of his lips. “No one is coming.”

You’ve been bad. Worse, you’ve been lazy.

“No!”

Yes. You had an appointment and you skipped it. You ran away. You ran away to Bangor, Maine, of all the silly places.

“It wasn’t my fault,” he muttered. He was gripping the handle of the briefcase with almost painful tightness now. “I was taken against my will. I... I was shanghaied!”

No reply from that interior voice. Only waves of disapproval. And once again Craig intuited the pressure he was under, the terrible never-ending pressure, the weight of the fathoms. The interior voice did not have to tell him there were no excuses; Craig knew that. He knew it of old.

THEY were here... and they will be back. You know that, don’t you?

He knew. The langoliers would be back. They would be back for him. He could sense them. He had never seen them, but he knew how horrible they would be. And was he alone in his knowledge? He thought not.

He thought perhaps the little blind girl knew something about the langoliers as well.

But that didn’t matter. The only thing which did was getting to Boston, getting to Boston before the langoliers could arrive in Bangor from their terrible, doomish lair to eat him alive and screaming. He had to get to that meeting at the Pru, had to let them know what he had done, and then he would be...

Free.

He would be free.

Craig pulled himself away from the window, away from the emptiness and the stillness, and plunged into the corridor beneath the sign. He passed the empty shops without a glance. Beyond them he came to the door he was looking for. There was a small rectangular plaque mounted on it, just above a bullseye peephole. AIRPORT SECURITY, it said.

He had to get in there. One way or another, he had to get in there.