ving in the same direction as the Assassin. With him
in the car were three large men carrying automatic rifles. Andrews
stopped the car, and one of the men got out and knelt by the bodies.
Andrews watched him somberly for a moment then reached for the
microphone. He spoke to the station sergeant.

"Inspector Andrews here. Send an ambulance out here, will you, and
phone Doctor Cartwright. Tell him the steam-roller's loose again. It
may be on the road heading his way. Yes, steam-roller. He'll
understand."

He put the microphone down, called to the man on the road. "I'm
leaving you here, Roberts. There's an ambulance on its way. Go back
with it. Get in Sergeant Bennet's car and both of you join us up
ahead."

He closed the car window and released the brake. The empty road began
to unwind slowly into the area of light ahead.

Simon put the receiver down and looked at his wife. She was
concentrating on a sock by the fire. He went over and kissed the top
of her head. "Goodbye," she said.

"Listen," he said quietly. "When I'm gone lock the door behind me and
don't go out. If you hear any funny noises go down to the cellar.
Understand?"

She was a little frightened. "Honey, what is it?"

He smiled. "It's nothing. Long John Andrews is out hunting. I'm going
along in case he shoots himself."

He took his shot-gun off the mantle and stuffed his pockets with
cartridges.

"I'll bring you back a rabbit," he said. "So long."

He drove down slowly. He was scared, but he was still young enough to
find it exhilarating. The loaded shot-gun was a great help.

He turned on to the highway, and slowed to walking pace. He stared
into the darkness ahead until his eyes burned, and imagination peopled
his surroundings with writhing shapes.

Then he saw it, and the muscles across his chest trembled
convulsively. Fear clutched his stomach. He slammed his foot down on
the brake and gaped up at it. It was standing still in the middle of
the road, a giant, pear shaped body, looking something like a man
kneeling upright. At the front, turned inwards, were a number of
arm-like appendages.

The shot-gun was ridiculous now, the car made of paper. To get out and
run was impossible, and he longed to be able to sit still and do
nothing. And the seconds dragged by. Time for contemplation built up,
and a strange realization dropped into his seething mind. He sensed
something about its attitude. A cringing, a withdrawal. "God," he
whispered