The seconds ooze by. They really ooze like blood. Are they still in the air, or is their flight ended? Each second slays a hope. The flow of time now seems destructive. Twenty centuries of wear and tear, beating against the temple, nibbling and fissuring the granite and finally reducing it to dust, are now concentrated into each second threatening the crew.
Each second carries something away - Fabien's voice, Fabien's laugh, his smile. The silence gains ground. A heavier and heavier silence, bearing down on the crew like the weight of the sea.