The frozen silence following Dinah's warning was finally broken by Robert Jenkins. "We have some problems," he said in a dry lecture-hall voice. "If Dinah hears something - and following the remarkable demonstration she's just given us, I'm inclined to think she does - it would be helpful if we knew what it is. We don't. That's one problem. The plane's lack of fuel is another problem."
"There's a 727 Out there," Nick said, "all cozied up to a jetway. Can you fly one of those, Brian?"
"Yes," Brian said.
Nick spread his hands in Bob's direction and shrugged, as if to say There you are: one knot untied already.
"Assuming we do take off again, where should we go?" Bob Jenkins went on. "A third problem."
"Away," Dinah said immediately. "Away from that sound. We have to get away from that sound, and what's making it."
"How long do you think we have?" Bob asked her gently. "How long before it gets here, Dinah? Do you have any idea at all?"
"No," she said from the safe circle of Laurel's arms. "I think it's still far. I think there's still time. But..."
"Then I suggest we do exactly as Mr Warwick has suggested," Bob said. "Let's step over to the restaurant, have a bite to eat, and discuss what happens next. Food does have a beneficial effect on what Monsieur Poirot liked to call the little gray cells."
"We shouldn't wait," Dinah said fretfully.
"Fifteen minutes," Bob said. "No more than that. And even at your age, Dinah, you should know that useful thinking must always precede useful action."
Albert suddenly realized that the mystery writer had his own reasons for wanting to go to the restaurant. Mr Jenkins's little gray cells were all in apple-pie working order - or at least he believed they were - and following his eerily sharp assessment of their situation on board the plane, Albert was willing at least to give him the benefit of the doubt. He wants to show us something, or prove something to us, he thought.
"Surely we have fifteen minutes?" he coaxed.
"Well..." Dinah said unwillingly. "I guess so."
"Fine," Bob said briskly. "It's decided." And he struck off across the room toward the restaurant, as if taking it for granted that the others would follow him.
Brian and Nick looked at each other.
"We better go along," Albert said quietly. "I think he knows stuff."
"What kind of stuff?" Brian asked.
"I don't know, exactly, but I think it might be stuff worth finding out."
Albert followed Bob; Bethany followed Albert; the others fell in behind them, Laurel leading Dinah by the hand. The little girl was very pale.
2
The Cloud Nine Restaurant was really a cafeteria with a cold-case full of drinks and sandwiches at the rear and a stainless steel counter running beside a long, compartmentalized steam-table. All the compartments were empty, all sparkling clean. There wasn't a speck of grease on the grill. Glasses - those tough cafeteria glasses with the ripply sides - were stacked in neat pyramids on rear shelves, along with a wide selection of even tougher cafeteria crockery.
Robert Jenkins was standing by the cash register. As Albert and Bethany came in, he said: "May I have another cigarette, Bethany?"
"Gee, you're a real mooch," she said, but her tone was good-natured. She produced her box of Marlboros and shook one out. He took it, then touched her hand as she also produced her book of matches.
"I'll just use one of these, shall I?" There was a bowl filled with paper matches advertising LaSalle Business School by the cash register. FOR OUR MATCHLESS FRIENDS, a little sign beside the bowl read. Bob took a book of these matches, opened it, and pulled one of the matches free.
"Sure," Bethany said, "but why?"
"That's what we're going to find out," he said. He glanced at the others. They were standing around in a semicircle, watching - all except Rudy Warwick, who had drifted to the rear of the serving area and was closely inspecting the contents of the cold-case.
Bob struck the match. It left a little smear of white stuff on the striker but didn't light. He struck it again with the same result. On the third try, the paper match bent. Most of the flammable head was gone, anyway.
"My, my," he said in an utterly unsurprised tone. "I suppose they must be wet. Let's try a book from the bottom, shall we?