It had been a man.
Instead of a six-foot log of driftwood, the smouldering obstacle had been a man.
And the crowning horror was yet to come. For at the sound of the Saint's voice, the blackened log moved again feebly and emitted a faint groan.
Simon turned back to his car, and was back again in another moment with his light topcoat and a whisky flask. He wrapped the coat around the piece of human charcoal to smother any remaining fire, and gently raised the singed black head to hold his flask to the cracked lips.
A spasm of pain contorted the man, and his face worked through a horrible crispness.
"Blue… Goose…" The voice came in a parched whisper. "Maris… contact… Olga — Ivan — Ivanovitch…"
Simon glanced around the deserted landscape, and had never felt so helpless. It was obviously impossible for him to move that sickening relict of a human being, or to render any useful first aid.
Even if any aid, first or last, would have made any difference.
"Can you hold it until I get some help — an ambulance?" he said. "I'll hurry. Can you hear me?"
The burned man rallied slightly.