"I don't see no barrier," he said.

"Damn it, man, you don't see it. It just is there, is all."

"What can we do?" he asked.

"The children are OK," I assured him, hoping I was right. "They're just on the other side of the barrier. We can't get to them and they can't get to us, but everything's all right."

"I just got up to look in on them," the woman said. "I just got up to look at them and there was something in the hall…"

"How many?" I asked.

"Two," said Donovan. "One is six, the other eight."

"Is there someone you can phone? Someone outside the village. They could come and take them in and take care of them until we get this thing figured out. There must be an end to this wall somewhere. I was looking for it…"

"She's got a sister," said Donovan, "up the road a ways. Four or five miles."

"Maybe you should call her." And as I said it, another thought hit me straight between the eyes. The phone might not be working. The barrier might have cut the phone lines.

"You be all right, Liz?" he asked.

She nodded dumbly, still sitting on the floor, not trying to get up.

"I'll go call Myrt," he said.

I followed him into the kitchen and stood beside him as he lifted the receiver of the wall phone, holding my breath in a fierce hope that the phone would work. And for once my hoping must have done some good, for when the receiver came off the hook I could hear the faint buzz of an operating line.

Out in the dining-room, Mrs Donovan was sobbing very quietly.

Donovan dialed, his big, blunt, grease-grimed fingers seemingly awkward and unfamiliar at the task. He finally got it done.

He waited with the receiver at his ear. I could hear the signal ringing in the quietness of the kitchen.

"That you, Myrt? said Donovan. "Yeah, this is Bill. We run into a little trouble. I wonder could you and Jake come over…. No, Myrt, just something wrong. I can't explain it to you. Could you come over and pick up the kids? You'll have to come the front way; you can't get in the back.