He dug to the bottom of the bowl, spilling a number of matchbooks off the top and onto the counter as he did so. They all looked perfectly dry to Albert. Behind him, Nick and Brian exchanged another glance.
Bob fished out another book of matches, pulled one, and tried to strike it. It didn't light.
"Son of a bee," he said. "We seem to have discovered yet another problem. May I borrow your book of matches, Bethany?"
She handed it over without a word.
"Wait a minute," Nick said slowly. "What do you know, matey?"
"Only that this situation has even wider implications than we at first thought," Bob said. His eyes were calm enough, but the face from which they looked was haggard. "And I have an idea that we all may have made one big mistake. Understandable enough under the circumstances... but until we've rectified our thinking on this subject, I don't believe we can make any progress. An error of perspective, I'd call it."
Warwick was wandering back toward them. He had selected a wrapped sandwich and a bottle of beer. His acquisitions seemed to have cheered him considerably. "What's happening, folks?"
"I'll be damned if I know," Brian said, "but I don't like it much."
Bob Jenkins pulled one of the matches from Bethany's book and struck it. It lit on the first strike. "Ah," he said, and applied the flame to the tip of his cigarette. The smoke smelled incredibly pungent, incredibly sweet to Brian, and a moment's reflection suggested a reason why: it was the only thing, save for the faint tang of Nick Hopewell's shaving lotion and Laurel's perfume, that he could smell. Now that he thought about it, Brian realized that he could also smell his travelling companions' sweat.
Bob still held the lit match in his hand. Now he bent back the top of the book he'd taken from the bowl, exposing all the matches, and touched the lit match to the heads of the others. For a long moment nothing happened. The writer slipped the flame back and forth along the heads of the matches, but they didn't light. The others watched, fascinated.
At last there was a sickly phsssss sound, and a few of the matches erupted into dull, momentary life. They did not really burn at all; there was a weak glow and they went out. A few tendrils of smoke drifted up... smoke which seemed to have no odor at all.
Bob looked around at them and smiled grimly. "Even that," he said, "is more than I expected."
"All right," Brian said. "Tell us about it. I know - "
At that moment, Rudy Warwick uttered a cry of disgust. Dinah gave a little shriek and pressed closer to Laurel. Albert felt his heart take a high skip in his chest.
Rudy had unwrapped his sandwich - it looked to Brian like salami and cheese - and had taken a large bite. Now he spat it out onto the floor with a grimace of disgust.
"It's spoiled!" Rudy cried. "Oh, goddam! I hate that!"
"Spoiled?" Bob Jenkins said swiftly. His eyes gleamed like blue electrical sparks. "Oh, I doubt that. Processed meats are so loaded with preservatives these days that it takes eight hours or more in the hot sun to send them over. And we know by the clocks that the power in that cold-case went out less than five hours ago."
"Maybe not," Albert spoke up. "You were the one who said it felt later than our wristwatches say."
"Yes, but I don't think... Was the case still cold, Mr Warwick? When you opened it, was the case still cold?"
"Not cold, exactly, but cool," Rudy said. "That sandwich is all fucked up, though. Pardon me, ladies. Here." He held it out. "If you don't think it's spoiled, you try it."
Bob stared at the sandwich, appeared to screw up his courage, and then did just that, taking a small bite from the untouched half. Albert saw an expression of disgust pass over his face, but he did not get rid of the food immediately. He chewed once... twice... then turned and spat into his hand. He stuffed the half-chewed bite of sandwich into the trash-bin below the condiments shelf, and dropped the rest of the sandwich in after it.
"Not spoiled," he said. "Tasteless. And not just that, either. It seemed to have no texture." His mouth drew down in an involuntary expression of disgust. "We talk about things being bland - unseasoned white rice,