"There it is," said the pilot. "Be there in another five minutes."
The copter landed on a long, smooth beach, with a picture postcard ocean lapping at the white sand. The pilot showed Don around the place with an almost proprietorial pride, pointing out the various conveniences, and giving advice.
"The house is a real doll," he told Don. "Never lived in. A rich fella owned the place, and was going to use it for vacations, but he never got around to it. Incidentally, it'll be for sale when the stunt's over. Whopping price, too, I'll bet."
There was hot and cold running water, an electrical system powered by a gas engine, furniture, even a pair of swimming trunks hanging in a closet with other clothes.
"There's a laugh," the pilot observed, pointing to the trunks. "You won't need them."
"Well, if I go swimming ..." Don said.
"The swimming's fine, but you won't have any company to worry about what you wear," the pilot said. Don had never been entirely alone in his life; it took him a moment to grasp this small detail in the picture of his immediate future.
"Oh," he said, doubtfully. "Well, you know there's seaweed and all that...."
As a matter of fact, there was very little seaweed. The water was warm, and the days that followed were cloudless perfection; the nights were cool, and there was always a steady sea-breeze.