And that was when the Curate and the Churchwarden came strolling along, heads close, as though they were discussing something ecclesiastical, but when they saw the Sexton and Ezekiel, they became rather furtive, looking around as if they were lost and unsure which direction they should be taking: "it's Soft Mick," said the Sexton, indicating where the body lay, "reckon he's been smitten be a meteorite, or sumpn," and the Curate blanched, while the Churchwarden asked: "alive or deceased?" and the Sexton said: "dunno, reckon sumdy'll have to determine that," at which the Curate vomited, and the Churchwarden handed him a duster to clean his trousers, then turned to Ezekiel: "can you, Ezekiel? determine the matter?" but Ezekiel shook his head and the Sexton, as if trying to be helpful, said: "more a matter fer the Doctor, I mean it might be a meteorwrong, what smote him, but if he's alive, maybe the Nurse'd be more help than Ezekiel, don'tcha think?" and the Churchwarden pondered, and sighed: "would you mind, Ezekiel? it would be helpful, if he's still alive he'll need nursing, at the very least, but if he isn't, we'd not need the Doctor, then," so Ezekiel, putting his cap back on, bade farewell to the Sexton and walked back down the street towards the Nurse's house, pondering the chances of a meteorite, or wrong, travelling millions of light-years only to hit poor Mick on the head, then dismissed the idea as a fatuous, epichoric fancy, just the sort of illogical notion believed in by the sort of people who lived in this sort of village, miles and miles away from civilisation as he knew it; so, reaching the Nurse's cottage, he knocked loudly on the green door.