The beige car, a motor-powered van carrying two beige-uniformed attendants, drove directly to the edge of the green. As the men hopped out Hendley expected Curly to run--or to prepare to resist. To his astonishment the two attendants paid no more attention to the stocky man than to Hendley. With silent efficiency they scooped the dead body onto a stretcher, carried it to the rear of the van, and slid it inside. Without a word they retreated around the car and began to climb back onto their seats. "Wait!" Hendley shouted, running toward them. "Aren't you going to do anything about _him_?" He pointed accusingly at Curly, who was making practice swings with his borrowed club. The stocky man looked up. One of the attendants was already in his seat, but the driver paused. His head swiveled toward Hendley--stiffly. "He was murdered!" Hendley shouted. "I saw it! You can't let him get away with it!" The driver's face completed its turn. It was blank, shining, impersonal, and, in spite of its perfection of feature, inhuman. Hendley stared in stunned incredulity. Robots! Cleaning up the human debris on the golf course as they rescued drowning swimmers from the pools. No wonder Curly had remained indifferent! The vehicle drove off while Hendley stared after it. Swinging around, he tried to find the distant group of players who had paused in their game to watch what was happening. He saw them far off on another fairway. Their interest had turned back to their game. Hendley swung back to confront Curly. Revulsion shook him. The whole affair was impossible--it couldn't happen! "What kind of a man are you?" he shouted, hardly knowing what he was saying. To his horror the stocky man smiled with his usual cheerfulness. "These things happen," he said. "He never liked the game really. I told him he shouldn't play it, but...." Curly made another idle swing with his club, the head whistling in the air. "Don't think about it. You'll soon feel better. Shall we get on?" Hendley gaped at him. "Get on with what?" "The game," Curly said blandly. "I'll wait for you while you hit up to the green." Hendley's disbelief burst like a seed pod, spilling out angry words. "You're insane!" he cried. "You've just murdered a man! If you think we're going on with this farce--" "But you have to play," the bald man said, unperturbed. "Rules of the game, you know. Have to play at least six holes through." He smiled again, his red face unmarked by concern. He said, "Obviously you're new here, and there are some things you obviously don't understand. But anyone who plays golf accepts the risks involved. And the rules." He hefted his plastic club with his hairy, muscular arms. "You'll play," he murmured. "Unless you'd rather fight it out here." In an arrested moment of stillness in which no bird sang and the air itself ceased to stir, Hendley faced the murderer on the sun-washed green. It _was_ happening, he thought stupidly. It could not possibly happen, but it was.