The Assassin continued along the road. It was aware that it had killed, but it could not contemplate the fact. It possessed all the mental powers of its race, but its conditioning had focused them in one direction, the assassination of Dr. Cartwright. It could consider only those factors which had a direct relation to that purpose. Daylight was one of those factors. It was not aware of the passage of time, but when the sensitive patch on its back began to contract it left the road and went to the marsh. There it burrowed into the slime until green-flecked water closed over it. And deeper until a depth of mud protected it from the sun. Dr. Cartwright groaned and sat up in bed. He silenced the ringing telephone by putting the receiver to his ear. "Do you know what time it is?" he asked, aggrieved. "Hello? Doctor Cartwright? This is the police." "It is half-past seven," continued Simon. "For me, the middle of the night. I am in no fit state to measure a drunk's reactions." "I'm sorry, sir, but there's been an accident. On the Waverton Highway. A man is dead, Inspector Andrews is in charge of the case." "Inspector Andrews? Is mayhem suspected? Never mind, I'll get down there, right away." He put the receiver down and got out of bed. His wife muttered something unintelligible and wrapped his share of the blankets round her. Simon went downstairs. He made a cup of coffee and drank it while he dressed. The engine of his car was cold, but his house was on a hill and he was able to coast down to the Highway. The road was level and straight, and after a few minutes driving a little tableau came into sight--two cars, a group of uniforms. Inspector Andrews, tall, thin, dyspeptic, greeted him with a limp handshake. "Something funny about this," he said. "See what you think." Simon went down on one knee beside the body and began to undo the clothing. After a time he looked up into the sky. "This is very strange," he murmured. "I know," grunted Andrews. "Can they take the body now?" Simon stood up and nodded. He remained staring out across the marsh until the body had been removed, and the ambulance a distant object. Then he went and sat in his car. Andrews finished giving instructions to his Sergeant, and joined him. "I'll let you give me breakfast," he said. "You're very kind," said Simon absently, and released the brake. "Any use asking for the cause of death?" asked Andrews. "Oh, the cause of death was crushing, but the cause of the cause of death--" Simon shook his head. "There wasn't an unbroken bone in his body. Could he have been dropped from an airplane?" Andrews shook a ponderous head. "He was a bus driver on his way to work without an enemy in the world. And I've a feeling his death is going to keep me awake at nights. Anyway, Sergeant Bennet is going over the area with a magnifying glass. We'll put up a pretty good show. Can you suggest anything?"