boiled potatoes - but even the blandest food has some taste, I think. That had none. It was like chewing paper. No wonder you thought it was spoiled."
"It was spoiled," the bald man reiterated stubbornly.
"Try your beer," Bob invited. "That shouldn't be spoiled. The cap is still on, and a capped bottle of beer shouldn't spoil even if it isn't refrigerated."
Rudy looked thoughtfully at the bottle of Budweiser in his hand, then shook his head and held it out to Bob. "I don't want it anymore," he said. He glanced at the cold-case. His gaze was baleful, as if he suspected Jenkins of having played an unfunny practical joke on him.
"I will if I have to," Bob said, "but I've already offered my body up to science once. Will somebody else try this beer? I think it's very important."
"Give it to me," Nick said.
"No." It was Don Gaffney. "Give it to me. I could use a beer, by God. I've drunk 'em warm before and they don't cross my eyes none."
He took the beer, twisted off the cap, and upended it. A moment later he whirled and sprayed the mouthful he had taken onto the floor.
"Jesus!" he cried. "Flat! Flat as a pancake!"
"Is it?" Bob asked brightly. "Good! Great! Something we can all see!" He was around the counter in a flash, and taking one of the glasses down from the shelf. Gaffney had set the bottle down beside the cash register, and Brian looked at it closely as Bob Jenkins picked it up. He could see no foam clinging to the inside of the bottleneck. It might as well be water in there, he thought.
What Bob poured out didn't look like water, however; it looked like beer. Flat beer. There was no head. A few small bubbles clung to the inside of the glass, but none of them came pinging up through the liquid to the surface.
"All right," Nick said slowly, "it's flat. Sometimes that happens. The cap doesn't get screwed on all the way at the factory and the gas escapes. Everyone's gotten a flat lager from time to time."
"But when you add in the tasteless salami sandwich, it's suggestive, isn't it?"
"Suggestive of what?" Brian exploded.
"In a moment," Bob said. "Let's take care of Mr Hopewell's caveat first, shall we?" He turned, grabbed glasses with both hands (a couple of others fell off the shelf and shattered on the floor), then began to set them out along the counter with the agile speed of a bartender. "Bring me some more beer. And a couple of soft drinks, while you're at it."
Albert and Bethany went down to the cold-case and each took four or five bottles, picking at random.
"Is he nuts?" Bethany asked in a low voice.
"I don't think so," Albert said. He had a vague idea of what the writer was trying to show them... and he didn't like the shape it made in his mind. "Remember when he told you to save your matches? He knew something like this was going to happen. That's why he was so hot to get us over to the restaurant. He wanted to show us."
3
The duty roster was ripped into three dozen narrow strips and the langoliers were closer now.
Craig could feel their approach at the back of his mind - more weight.
More insupportable weight.
It was time to go.
He picked up the gun and his briefcase, then stood up and left the security room. He walked slowly, rehearsing as he went: I don't want to shoot you, but I will if I have to. Take me to Boston. I don't want to shoot you, but I will if I have to. Take me to Boston.
"I will if I have to," Craig muttered as he walked back into the waiting room. "I will if I have to." His finger found the hammer of the gun and cocked it back.
Halfway across the room, his attention was once more snared by the pallid light which fell through the windows, and he turned in that direction. He could feel them out there. The langoliers. They had eaten all the useless, lazy people, and now they were returning for him. He had to get to Boston. It was the only way he knew to save the rest of himself... because their death would be horrible. Their death would be horrible indeed.
He walked slowly to the windows and looked out, ignoring - at least for the time being -